Posted on 2009-09-02

Summary: In this Mansfield Park variation, Edmund Bertram pays a call on Fanny Crawford.

The butler walked down the hall of Everingham Manor in Norfolk and knocked on the door of the sitting room.

"Beg your pardon, ma'am," he said to the Mistress, Mrs. Crawford, "Sir Thomas Bertram, Mr. Bertram, and Mr. Edmund Bertram here to see you."

There was a flash of relief on Fanny's face, as her relations had been expected for the last hour. "Be so good to show them in, please."

The butler barely nodded and left to do so. Fanny waited anxiously, twisting a lace handkerchief in her hands. It seemed to take forever before the heavy footsteps of the gentlemen could be heard. Finally, the door opened, and there were her uncle and cousins.

"Fanny, my dear," said Sir Thomas as he crossed the floor and took her into his arms. "We came as soon as we could."

"Indeed, Fanny," said Tom, who had placed a hand on her shoulder. "All is in readiness, as you will see."

Fanny's eyes flew to Edmund, who stood a little to the side, his look dark and troubled, and then to the butler, still at the door. "Roberts, please have Nanny Betty bring the children down. And have the trunks in my apartment brought down."

The butler paused as he turned. "Of course, ma'am. I take it you are leaving?"

Fanny's gaze was firmly on her shoes. "The children and I are to visit Mansfield. We leave this morning." The men were not so affected; their features were hard and determined.

This intelligence troubled the butler, but he left to do his mistress' bidding. Fanny and her relations sat and engaged in some small conversation about the Bertrams' travels until the sound children's voices brought their attention back to the door. A young man of about three years, followed by a heavy-set middle-aged woman carrying a babe burst into the room. The boy leapt into his mother's waiting arms and clutched her close, his wide eyes staring at the visitors..

"Now, now Tom," said Fanny tenderly, "do you not remember your uncle? This is Sir Thomas, your godfather, and these are your cousins. You should remember your manners and greet them."

Sir Thomas smiled kindly at his namesake. He knew Crawford had named his heir after him to gain the baronet's favor. An unnecessary honor, Sir Thomas could not but love any child of Fanny's. "Hey ho, Tom. What a big boy you are! Have you been good for your momma?"

"Yes, sir," the boy said. "I remember you. Your name is Tom, too. You gave me sweets."

Sir Thomas laughed. "So I did! And I might have something about me now, if you would help me search my pockets." The child smiled and climbed into his uncle's lap. Within moments, a piece of licorice was procured from Sir Thomas' waistcoat.

Meanwhile, Fanny retrieved the one-year-old William from Nanny Betty's arms. Receiving assurance that the children's trunks were packed, Fanny said to the nanny, "The children and I are leaving today to visit Mansfield Park. Our stay there may be of some duration. Do you come with us?"

The woman was confused, and Sir Thomas spoke up. "We will not beat about the bush. Because of certain events in Town, Mrs. Crawford is removing to Mansfield. My niece and her children will be under my protection. If you choose to accompany us, it is certain that Mr. Crawford will discharge you. As for myself, I cannot guarantee employment, but I will take you on for a probationary period. If you do well, I will keep you on."

The nanny grimaced. "Begging your pardon, Sir Thomas, but it is well known below stairs what event you refer to. I cannot fault Mrs. Crawford for leaving, but I was brought on to care for the boys, and my place is with them. Besides," she added with a half-hearted grin, "with them gone, there's no reason for the Master to keep me on, is there? I'll take my chances with you, if it's all the same."

Fanny blushed. "Thank you, Betty. You may pack your things."

"Already packed, ma'am."

Sir Thomas got up from the chair, Tom still in his arms. "Excellent. We leave within the half-hour."

As good as his word, the two carriages and a wagon, which were brought along for the purpose of transporting Mrs. Crawford, her children, and her belongings, were ready in thirty minutes. Sir Thomas insisted on having the boys with the nurse in his coach, and Mr. Bertram rode, so it was left for Fanny and her maid, who had earlier agreed to depart with her mistress, to travel in Edmund's carriage.

The departing Mistress of Everingham took her leave of each and every servant, not a few without tears. Such was the general affection and respect that was held for her among the staff. Even Roberts sniffed a bit as Mrs. Crawford took his hand for perhaps the last time. Edmund helped his cousin into the carriage, gave a word to the driver as he closed the door, and the party was off.

Edmund looked out the window was they passed the gates of Everingham. "We are right on schedule. The weather is fine, so we should reach Mansfield before dark, I should think. Are you comfortable, Fan?"

Assured that she was, the three passengers sat in silence for an hour. Finally, exhausted by spending the majority of the night packing for her mistress and herself, the maid slipped off into a snoring sleep. Fanny flashed an apologetic smile to Edmund.

"'Tis all right, Fan," he said in a low voice. "It is well she sleeps, for I wish to talk to you. Are you well?"

Fanny nodded. "I am. Thank you for taking all of this trouble on my behalf."

"Say nothing of that. We are happy to help. We only wish that things could be happier. I am so sorry, Fan."

"It is not your fault."

"No. It is his, damn him. I am sorry to lose my temper, but you have been ill-used."

Fanny said nothing to this and only looked out the window at the passing fields. Finally, she said, "I tried, Edmund."

"Tried what, Fan?"

Fanny would not look at him. "I tried to be a good wife to him, but…" She broke off. "Perhaps if I have been more forgiving--"

"Fanny!" he said in a strong whisper. "Forgiving of vice? Crawford has set up a house for his actress mistress in London. He has betrayed you and God. The shame he has brought upon you. No! You owe him nothing."

Fanny shook her head. "You know not the whole story, Edmund. I am not blameless."

"Then tell me, my dear."

She glanced at the sleeping maid. "Not here."

Edmund saw that his cousin was correct. It would not do to have such a conversation in a small carriage where a dozing servant may awaken and overhear, so he changed the subject and spoke at length of his father's plans.

He had set aside an entire wing of Mansfield Park for Fanny's excusive use. A schoolroom and nursery were being prepared even now, for it was their intention that Fanny and her sons make their home in Northamptonshire.

"It sounds wonderful," Fanny said with tears in her eyes, "but what if my husband comes and demands that I return to Norfolk?"

"He will not be allowed to set foot in Mansfield, Fan. You have sought sanctuary in your family's house. The law will be on our side."

"But…but the children! Can he not take them away?"

"In the very unlikely event that Mr. Crawford develops any paternal instincts, he will discover that that his moral choices will make things inconvenient for him. Do not forget that my father is not only a baronet, but a Member of Parliament with many friends in high places--men of influence and power. Sir Thomas will not hesitate in calling on his friends, should the need arise."

"The scandal! How can you bear it?"

Edmund looked out the window. "The damage has been done--I can be hurt no more."

"What do you mean? Your work, your practice…" she paused, and softly added, "your marriage?"

Edmund dropped his head to his breast. "All three, I am afraid." Fanny tried to console him, but he would have none of it. "No, Fan, my troubles have been of my own making. I never should have gone into the law. It suits me ill. Oh, I make a good living, have a fine house and carriage," he gestured, "but there is no joy to be had in preparing a writ or contract, knowing that some other clever fellows--some acquaintances of mine--are always ready and eager to attack my work as that of a simpleton just to earn his fees. It is a profession of scoundrels."

"You always wanted to go into the church."

"Yes, and I was too weak to follow my inclination and instead allowed myself to be persuaded to follow another path."

Fanny reached across the carriage and took his hand. "Mrs. Bertram is very convincing."

Edmund's eyes flashed, and for an instant Fanny, could see the power Mary Bertram could weld--power Fanny had never used on her husband. A moment later the look was gone, replaced by self-loathing. "Nay, Fanny. Even a woman with a silver tongue needs a willing ear. Let the blame fall in its proper place."

"Then, am I not equally to blame?"

Edmund darkened. "'Forsaking all others'--is that not what he promised? The man lied before God. You have held true. You are blameless."

Again, Fanny looked to disagree, but a jostle awoke the maid. The three rode on, discussing the passing landscape until it was time to stop at a village, change horses, and eat. The publican was happy for the trade, and while the food was only adequate, it was hot and plentiful. Young Tom spent most of his time playing with his uncle and granduncle, while young William sought his mother's arms. When the travelers prepared to depart, Edmund suggested to Fanny's maid that the views of Northamptonshire, which they were soon to enter, could best be appreciated from the driver's box. Thus persuaded, Edmund and Fanny found themselves alone in the carriage.

"Are you certain you do not have a future in politics?" Fanny teased her cousin.

"Quite sure," Edmund laughed, "but being convincing has served me well at the bar from time to time!"

The carriage rolled on, and the smile on Fanny's face faded as she gathered her courage. Edmund needed to know the truth.

"Edmund, I must tell you the story of my marriage."

"No, it is not necessary--"

"But it is. You must know the truth. Will you hear?" Edmund nodded and she continued. "In the beginning, Henry was as attentive a husband as any wife could dream of. Whatever was needed for my comfort was done in an instant. And Everingham Manor, while no Mansfield Park, was delightful. I was happy, Edmund.

"The only mar on our joy was that Henry was always restless at Everingham." She sighed. "He is not like us, Edmund, with our joy of the countryside. He longed to be anywhere but Everingham, and his favorite place was London. The balls, the parties, the theater…" her voice broke a bit, "Henry loved to walk into Almacks, with me on his arm. He was showing me off. Oh, there was always affection, but he was proud of me as well. And I--I tried and tried, but I could never lose my nervousness over being on display. How I longed to return to Norfolk, and my garden and my mare!"

Edmund sat, nodding, thinking how his cousin's story so matched his. He had married the captivating and vivacious Mary Crawford only a month before Fanny wed Henry, and from the beginning, Mary cajoled him, molded him, into a new man. Rather than an obscure country parish vicar, he was a barrister in Town who traveled in a very up-and-coming society. No party was complete without the attendance of Mr. and Mrs. Bertram. The ton awaited the moment he would stand for Parliament. He tried hard to please Mary, but he hated London and its hypocrisy. In the depths of his soul, he was miserable.

Fanny continued. "When I learned I was with child, I…I put my foot down. I insisted that my confinement should be at Everingham. Henry relented, and we went home. Henry was attentive as ever, but as the weeks drew on, he would leave me for a time. At first, it was for an afternoon's sport--riding or shooting--and then for a day or two. Finally, he would leave to visit with friends-- I was never sure who--for a week at a time. I was so afraid that he would be away when the time came, but Henry was waiting in his study when Tom came into the world."

"Yes, Mary and I were there."

Fanny acknowledged that. "But after you left, Henry would ask me, with increasing regularity, when we could return to Town, and…and when we could resume…our more private--" Fanny blushed furiously.

"Say no more, Fan, I understand."

What Edmund could not understand was Crawford's unfeeling selfishness. True, he and Mary had never been blessed with a child, but he knew he would behave better than his brother-in-law.

"I left my baby sooner than I wished. Henry assured me Tom was safe with Nanny Betty, but I missed him so! But I was determined to be the wife Henry wanted." She glanced at Edmund. "Cousin, I must tell you that Henry was not best pleased when I fell with child again."

"I am sorry, Fan."

"He put up no argument when I desired a return to Norfolk, but as soon as I was settled, business called him away to London."

Edmund suspected the nature of Crawford's 'business.'

"I didn't know, at first. Truly, I had no idea, until the day the first letter came. It was addressed from a 'friend,' and gave few details, but I was not so simple as to not know the letter's meaning. Henry was in the company of other women while I was in Norfolk." She closed her eyes. "I did not believe it--I did not want to believe it--but then the next letter came. And this time, it contained a pair of cufflinks. Henry's cufflinks."

"Oh, Fanny!"

"I was in agony. I knew what was implied, but I tried to come up with a reasonable explanation. Perhaps, Henry was overheated one night while playing cards and desired to roll up his sleeves and misplaced his cufflinks. Or perhaps he had to help someone in distress, ruining his shirt, and while changing, put on the wrong cufflinks.

"But, when he returned to Everingham and beheld the cufflinks on my bedstead, he said, 'Oh, good, we got them back.' Edmund, he was so unconcerned about it! I told him how I had received them, and he said nothing--he only looked at me as if I was a simpleton. 'My dear,' he said, 'surely you know by now that men have needs. Would you have me bother you at this time in your condition? I think you should be thanking me.'"

Edmund, for the first time in years, cursed.

"We had a terrible argument. At the end of it, he returned to his rooms, packed, and left for Town." Fanny paused. "He has not been in my bed since." Embarrassed, she dropped her face into her hands. "Do you see? I forced him away. I…I know I am his wife, and I have tried to forgive him, but…but I can not rid myself of the thought of him with another woman. I cannot get it out of my mind. Is that not unchristian of me?"

Edmund tried to console her. "Fanny, we are all poor sinners--that is true. But I must say your sins are nothing next to his! Has he never apologized?" Fanny was able to shake her head. "There, you see? The man should be on his knees before you."

"But…but if I had forgiven him, would he have taken that actress as his mistress?"

"Fanny, believe me, denial of favors does not lead a man to sin!" I should know. "Besides, you had your own concerns. Forgive me, but do you know of the French disease? He is risking his life--and yours too!"

"And is there nothing we can do?"

"You are doing something. You are protecting your sons. Contact with such a father would ruin them."

Fanny hung her head. "I feared it." She sighed. "You know, he left the choice of William's name to me. He could not be bothered."

Edmund's insides roiled, but he forced himself to speak calmly. "You and the boys are in better company now. All at Mansfield await your arrival with joy and expectation. You all will be loved and cherished, as you deserve."

Edmund did not exaggerate. His reformed brother, Tom, had married a good woman, a lady kind as she was pretty, and she had pledged to love Fanny as a sister. Susan Price, now the vicar's wife, was nearby at Thornton Lacey. And Julia and her husband had promised to visit. Thankfully, Aunt. Norris is removed to Sotherton Court, to live with my sister, Mrs. Rushworth, and bedevil Mr. Rushworth's mother.

Fanny looked up, a strange expression on her face. "Loved and cherished as I deserve? Thank you; I shall be content." With that, she sat back to gaze out the window again.

Edmund's thoughts remained unsettled, for he was afraid that he had given himself away. He sat back, reviewing the fate of all his siblings. Maria, desirous of a fashionable life, was now united for life with a man she could never like or respect. Julia, seeing the unhappiness in Maria's choice, was able to extract herself from that idiot, Yates, and marry a decent, jolly fellow, a man who would shower her with the attention she desired without overly spoiling her. And the future Lady Bertram was an excellent woman.

And myself? Does anyone know the mistake I made? Blinded by beauty, grace, and wit, I allowed myself to become what I despise--an impostor. To all the world, I am a successful barrister with a brilliant wife on my arm. Do they know how I hate it? How empty my life is? How I loathe society and London? How I long for the peace of the country, with a house filled with children--something I will never have?

He glanced at his cousin. Yes, Fanny, believe me. I know denial of favors does not necessarily lead a man to sin. I know that all too well. Mary and I have not been husband and wife for over a year now, ever since she demanded that I stand by Henry over you. I wonder where she is now? In my parlor, or in the sitting room of that harlot, entertaining Henry? What a waste my life has become! Mary will do nothing to cause grounds for a divorce, so I am trapped in a loveless marriage, as long as I remain Edmund Bertram and do not become completely whatever creature Mary wants me to be.

He looked at Fanny again. I wonder if things had been different, if I had not been so blind, would you…NO! Do not think it! Do not think of things that will never be!

"Edmund?"

He was startled to be shaken from his thoughts by the very woman of whom he had been thinking. Forcing himself to calm, he said with tolerable composure, "Yes, Fan?"

"Are you certain all will be well?" Again, she looked at him with an unreadable expression.

Obeying an urge he could no longer avoid, he reached over to take her hands in his. "Fanny, you will be happy again. I promise you."

A small smile appeared on her lips, and she squeezed his hands in return. "Thank you, Edmund." Her voice was a soft as a caress.

A cry from the driver caught Edmund's attention. "Look, my dear! We're home!"

Together, hand-in-hand, the unacknowledged lovers watched as dear Mansfield Park drew into view.

Back to Beginning of Section II

Posted on 2010-04-09

Summary: In this Emma variation, Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax arrive in Highbury early enough to attend the Weston's Christmas Eve dinner.)

Dinner was done, and so was the required separation of the sexes. Emma was glad of it, for as much as she tried, she could not like Jane Fairfax. Treasuring as she did openness, artifice must always distress her, and Miss Fairfax's reserve must to Emma always hint of disguise.

The snow outside showed no sign of lessening -- rather, it seemed to fall heavier. Mr. Woodhouse began to talk of leaving and Isabella too. It was distressing to Emma's feelings, for she had no time to talk of Harriet Smith to Mr. Elton. Now, with Miss Fairfax exhibiting on the pianoforte, the headache Emma feared began to grow in intensity.

To Mrs. Weston she excused herself, declaring that a half-hour's quiet in the library would be just the thing to sooth her head. Mr. Churchill and Mr. Knightley saw her distress, but Emma declined any assistance. Within moments, the cool, half-light of the library worked its magic on Emma's sensibilities.

It was then she learned that her escape had attracted another's notice.

"Miss Woodhouse," said Mr. Elton as he came into the room. "Pray, are you feeling well?" His tone was solicitous, but the volume did nothing for the lady's aching head.

"I am well enough, Mr. Elton. Thank you for your concern."

In any other situation, Emma would have rejoiced at the opportunity for a short tête-à-tête with the man she intended for Harriet. But now, she would rather it had not happened. Not only did her head pain her, but she believed the gentleman had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston's good wine and felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense.

To restrain him as much as might be by her own manners, she immediately prepared to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the weather and the night. But scarcely had she begun than she found her subject cut up -- her hand seized -- her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her!

Availing himself of the precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well known, hoping -- fearing -- adoring -- ready to die if she refused him but flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and unexampled passion could not fail to have some effect -- in short, very much resolved to be seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was so. Without scruple, without apology, without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself Emma's lover!

She tried to stop him but in vain. He would go on and say it all. As angry as Emma was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore, could hope that it might belong only to the passing hour.

Accordingly, she replied, "I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to me! You forget yourself -- you take me for my friend. Any message to Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver, but no more of this to me, if you please."

"Miss Smith! Message to Miss Smith? Good heaven, what can be the meaning of this? Miss Smith! I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence. Never paid her any attentions, but as your friend. Never cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry -- extremely sorry. But, Miss Smith, indeed! Oh, Miss Woodhouse! Who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near?

"No, upon my honor, I have thought only of you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to anyone else. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot seriously doubt it. No, I am sure you have seen and understood me."

It would be impossible to say what Emma felt on hearing this -- which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply, and two moments of silence being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind, he tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed --

"Charming Miss Woodhouse! Allow me to interpret this interesting silence. It confesses that you have long understood me."

"No, sir!" cried Emma. "It confesses no such thing. So far from having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect to your views, 'till this moment. Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith? That you have never thought seriously of her?"

"Never, madam!" cried he, affronted, in his turn. "Never, I assure you. I, think seriously of Miss Smith? Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl, and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her extremely well, and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to --" He coughed and said knowingly, "Everybody has their level, but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith! No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only and the encouragement I received."

"Encouragement? I give you encouragement? Sir, you have been entirely mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry, but it is well that the mistake ends where it does. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at present."

Mr. Elton turned scarlet and made to speak, when he was interrupted by the library door opening.

"I say, Miss Woodhouse, how does your head --" said Mr. Churchill, who started at the sight of Mr. Elton. "Mr. Elton! I…I… Am I interrupting something?"

Before Mr. Elton could speak, Emma interjected. "No, Mr. Churchill -- you could not interrupt two people with less to say to one another! Pray, sit with me for a while. My headache will improve, by and by, with your good company."

Mr. Elton was too angry to say another word. He stood and made for the library door before another syllable passed. Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly, and the gentleman left the two of them alone.

Mr. Churchill made himself comfortable in one of his father's chairs. "I do not believe Mr. Elton displays quite the proper spirit of the season, Miss Woodhouse. I hope he did not impose himself."

Emma assured the pleasant gentleman that she was unharmed and that her health generally was good.

"I am pleased to know it," said he. "This time of year is one that should promote good fellowship, although that may be difficult with the present company in the neighborhood."

"I cannot understand your meaning, sir," said Emma. "I have lived all my life in Highbury, and I find its society very agreeable."

"I am certain that you do, Miss Woodhouse, but you must own it to be dull and unvarying at times. I, myself, enjoy variation in society." He smiled. "Sometimes it is best to remove from a place sooner than not, else one's acquaintances might welcome extended contact as much as week-old trout."

Emma laughed. "Is that why you quitted Weymouth so abruptly?"

Instead of laughing in returned, Mr. Churchill colored. "No! Umm…no, Miss Woodhouse. Weymouth is all delightful, but familial duties called. I am happy to spend this holiday with my father's new family."

"Had you known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth?"

Mr. Churchill smiled. "I must pronounce that to be a very unfair question! It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account. I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may choose to allow."

"Upon my word! You answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of everything leaves so much to be guessed. She is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about anybody, that I think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her."

"May I indeed? Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known her guardians, the Campbells, a little in Town, and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all."

"You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude -- what she is destined to be."

"Yes…" he said rather hesitatingly, "I believe I do." He changed the subject. "Did you ever hear her play?"

"Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly.

"I have known her from a child, undoubtedly," Emma continued. "We have been children and women together, and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate -- that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened -- a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve! I never could attach myself to anyone so completely reserved."

"It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he. "Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person."

"Not 'till the reserve ceases towards oneself, and then the attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been to take the trouble of conquering anybody's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her -- not the least -- except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about anybody, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal."

Mr. Churchill agreed with Emma's observation, and not for the first time did the lady wonder why she did not like him more than she did. Oh, Frank Churchill was the most delightful young man -- witty, charming, and even a little sly. Emma sometimes could not understand why she refused to be flattered sufficiently to fall in love with him.

Her headache faded enough for her to laugh at an observation of Miss Bates when the library door opened again.

"Emma, your father was asking -- What is this?"

Emma saw that they had been joined by Mr. Knightley, and he was not pleased.

"What is the meaning of this, sir?" he directed towards Mr. Churchill. "Closed up with an indisposed young lady, a guest of your family, taking advantage of her infirmity in your father's house? What do you have to say for yourself?"

By this time, Mr. Churchill was on his feet. "I was doing no such thing! I…I was only seeing to Miss Woodhouse's comfort. I followed all prescriptions -- the door was open."

"It certainly was not!" For all his fury, Mr. Knightley spoke in a low, measured tone. It only made him sound that much more menacing.

"Oh! I…I suppose Mr. Elton had closed it." Mr. Churchill turned to Emma. "I did not attend -- I am very sorry."

Mr. Knightley, glowering, finally spoke to Emma. "What has Mr. Elton to do with this?"

Emma was taken aback at Mr. Knightley's presumption of proclaiming his defense of her virtue, but she answered his question. "It was nothing of importance, but Mr. Churchill's interruption of Mr. Elton's interview was both timely and welcome."

Mr. Knightley was incredulous. "Do you mean to say that man, while you were ill, had the unmitigated gall to --?"

Emma waved her hand. "It is a conversation best quickly forgot. I am unharmed."

Mr. Knightley breathed out and seemed to relax a little. "Thank heaven for that." But his face clouded again. "Still, this is an unfortunate circumstance. You should have taken more care, sir."

Emma did not mistake Mr. Knightley's meaning. "Sir -- I am unharmed. Mr. Churchill has been nothing but a gentleman."

"I trust he has," he said, his eyes shooting daggers at the gentleman, "and nothing may come from this. But what if a servant has seen the gentleman come in? Your reputation may be in danger."

"Surely not!" cried Emma.

Mr. Knightley turned again to her, and Emma was surprised to see not anger but deep pain in his countenance. "I pray to G-d you are right, Emma. But we must know if Mr. Churchill is prepared to act as a gentleman, if the necessity arises."

Emma had not seriously thought of marriage to Mr. Churchill previously and was struck how distasteful the notion was to her sensibilities. She sat silently meditating in a fixed attitude for a moment or two. A moment was sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched -- she admitted -- she acknowledged the whole truth. It darted through her with the speed of an arrow that she must marry no one but Mr. Knightley!

She had no time to explore this surprising revelation before Mr. Churchill said, "I am afraid not."

The others stared at Mr. Churchill, shocked.

"I…I cannot, Miss Woodhouse. Forgive me, but I am promised to another."

"To whom, sir?" demanded Mr. Knightley.

"Miss Jane Fairfax."

"What?" cried Emma. "You are betrothed to Miss Fairfax? Impossible!"

"Is this a recent event?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"It was made in October at Weymouth," said Mr. Churchill.

Mr. Knightley continued to glower. "You do not act the betrothed man, sir."

Deep was Frank Churchill's apparent distress as he addressed this accusation. "No, I do not, and I must admit to my shame it is by design. This betrothal is of a peculiar kind. Ignorant my family must be of our understanding, or we will both suffer for it. I am sure my uncle and guardian, Mr. Churchill, will have no objection to Miss Fairfax, but the same cannot be said of my aunt! I am ashamed to say that her reputation as a capricious and ill-tempered person is accurate. She expects far better of me, and as she owns great power over both my fortune and my uncle, I do not dare to marry without her consent, lest I lose all rights to Enscombe." His countenance took on a pleading aspect. "I know this sounds most hatefully mercenary, and perhaps it is, but I cannot bear for Miss Fairfax to live in poverty if it be within my power to prevent it."

Mr. Knightley was not appeased. "And how long do you intend to keep up this pretence?"

"I am trying to change my aunt expectations, but it is a slow business. I have little hope for success." He sighed. "She is also in poor health." Mr. Churchill at least had the decency to blush.

The first thought to Emma was, "Poor Miss Fairfax! To endure such a secret! To pretend only a fleeting acquaintance with one's betrothed, and not having the delight of sharing her joy with relations and friends! How she must suffer!"

"Do not believe that I do not suffer as well," Mr. Churchill cried. "It is an agony not to tell all of Highbury, tell the entire world, that Jane is mine. But I have a part to play, as does she. She is an unwilling actress, but she continues the deception only at my urging and mine alone. She cares nothing for Enscombe."

Mr. Knightley's expression showed his doubt as to Mr. Churchill's sincerity, and even Emma thought this was a little too much. Neither apparently thought to further challenge the man, for Mr. Knightley's next statement was one of dismissal.

"Please," Mr. Churchill begged, "you will keep our secret?"

Mr. Knightley was cold. "Only if you fully confess to your father, Mr. Weston. Your word on that, sir, and I will keep silent -- for Miss Fairfax's sake."

Emma found she was not pleased to hear further proof of Mr. Knightley's admiration for Miss Fairfax, but she agreed to the scheme. For his part, Mr. Churchill was relieved and vowed to speak to Mr. Weston that very night, after all guests had departed. With that, he took his leave and left the room.

"Well," exclaimed Emma when the two were alone, "that was a most surprising conversation. A secret betrothal! Who would have thought it?"

"Indeed," said Mr. Knightley, obviously deep in thought. "Miss Fairfax must suffer exceedingly."

"I am sure she does," said Emma drily, still unhappy over Mr. Knightley's defense of the lady, "but his sufferings do not appear to have done him much harm."

"He is a most fortunate man!" returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. "So early in life -- at three and twenty -- a period when, if a man chooses a wife, he generally chooses ill. At three and twenty to have drawn such a prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before him! Assured of the love of such a woman -- the disinterested love, for Jane Fairfax's character vouches for her disinterestedness. Everything in his favor, equality of situation -- as far as regards society, and all the habits and manners that are important -- equality in every point but one. And that one, since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his to bestow the only advantages she wants. A man would always wish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from. And he who can do it, where there is no doubt of her regard, must, I think, be the happiest of mortals.

"Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favorite of fortune. Everything turns out for his good. He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment -- and had he and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior. His friends are eager to promote his happiness. He has used everybody ill -- and they are all delighted to forgive him. He is a fortunate man indeed!"

"You speak as if you envy him," said Emma, hurt.

"And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy."

Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within a half-sentence of Miss Fairfax, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally different, and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her.

"You will not ask me what is the point of envy. You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity. You are wise -- but I cannot be wise. Emma! I must tell what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment."

"Oh! Then, do not speak it, do not speak it," she eagerly cried. "Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself."

"Thank you," said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not another syllable followed.

Emma could not bear to give him pain. He wished to confide in her -- perhaps to consult her. Cost her what it would, she would listen.

"I stopped you ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and I am afraid, gave you pain. But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of anything that you may have in contemplation -- as a friend, indeed, you may command me. I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think."

"As a friend!" repeated Mr. Knightley. "Emma, that I fear is a word -- No, I have no wish -- Stay, yes, why should I hesitate? I have gone too far already for concealment. Emma, I accept your offer, extraordinary as it may seem. I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend. Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?"

He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpowered her.

"My dearest Emma," said he, "for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma, tell me at once. Say no, if it is to be said."

She could say nothing.

"You are silent," he cried, with great animation, "absolutely silent! At present, I ask no more."

Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream was perhaps the most prominent feeling.

"I cannot make speeches, Emma," he soon resumed, and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing. "If I loved you less, I might be able to speak of it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it. Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. G-d knows, I have been a very indifferent lover. But you understand me. Yes, you see, you understand my feelings, and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."

What did she say? Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does. She said enough to show there need not be despair and to encourage him to speak on. Which he did, and as nighttime gives way to the dawn, talking led to touching, and touching gave way to kissing, and --

And the door opened to the library one last time.

"Emma," said Mr. Woodhouse, "I pray you head is better, but my dear, I fear that if we do not remove this instant to Hartfield, the snows shall trap us here at Randalls until the spring, I declare, and we cannot impose so on poor Miss Taylor --

"Emma? Emma? What are you doing with Mr. Knightley?"

Back to Beginning of Section II

Posted on 2010-06-05

Summary: In this Sense & Sensibility variation, Edward Ferrars is a little different.

Edward Ferrars stood tall by the fireplace mantel in his mother's Park Street, London sitting room. In the room, eyes upon him, were Mrs. Ferrars, his mother, and Mrs. Dashwood, his sister. He screwed up his courage, took a deep breath, and declared, "Mother, Fanny, I must ask for your congratulations. I am to be married."

The response to this remarkable statement was immediate. "Edward!" said Mrs. Ferrars, with all the tiny portion of maternal affection she possessed. "This is unexpected! I had not known you were calling regularly upon Miss Morton. Well done, my son, well done! You must have her over for tea." She turned to her daughter. "Fanny, do you think that tomorrow would be too soon?"

Fanny's expression upon hearing his news was not as sanguine as his mother's, and Edward knew she recalled his extended visit to Norland Park and his attentions to a certain young lady there. She answered Mrs. Ferrars, however, with tolerable composure.

"I believe that having the Mortons to tea tomorrow is perfectly acceptable. To invite Lady and Miss Morton today, on such short notice, would suggest mercenary motives, while later in the week would exhibit a negligence of an unsupportable magnitude."

"Very true, very true," replied the lady. "All must be done in a correct manner and measure. Tomorrow shall be the day. I shall write to Lady Morton at once."

"I should not write to Lady Morton, Mother," said Edward gravely.

"Not write to Lady Morton?" returned his astonished mother. "Whatever do you mean? Of course, I shall write! She is not so above me that I cannot write! Not only are we acquainted, but she is the mother of your intended! This is stuff and nonsense!"

Edward knew he could no long delay the inevitable. "You are misinformed, Mother, as to the identity of my intended. I am to marry Fanny's sister."

He noted that Fanny went pale while his mother looked between the two of them. "What do you mean, Fanny's sister?" Mrs. Ferrars demanded. "Edward, explain yourself. What have you done?"

"I have forever assured myself of domestic bliss." Edward puffed out his chest. "Fanny's sister, Miss Elinor Dashwood, has accepted my suit."

"What?" cried his mother. "That is impossible! I will not allow it! You are to marry Miss Morton!"

"No, madam," returned her son. "I am by honor and inclination bound to Miss Dashwood. The bans are to be read this week, and the announcement shall be in tomorrow's Times."

Mrs. Ferrars leapt from her chair. "Miss Dashwood?" She turned to Fanny. "Is this young woman by chance related to Mr. Dashwood?"

Fanny recoiled from Mrs. Ferrars' anger, and although Edward could plainly see that his sister would have been happy never to answer this question, she said in a tremulous voice, "Miss Dashwood is Mr. Dashwood's half-sister."

Mrs. Ferrars addressed Edward furiously. "Half-sister to John Dashwood? She has nothing! Have you taken leave of your senses? Is a so advantageous union long in the planning to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world? Heaven and earth, of what are you thinking?

"I am of age and sound mind. I shall marry where I choose." He tried a gentler tone. "Mother, Miss Dashwood -- Elinor -- is the kindest, sweetest young woman imaginable. She is accomplished and intelligent, above her station in manners and comportment, and I am very fortunate to win her tender feelings. She is a worthy addition to our family and will make a loving daughter --"

"Never!" Mrs. Ferrars exclaimed. "I will never allow that woman -- that fortune hunting temptress -- into my presence!"

"Madam, pray keep a civil tongue in your head," said Edward darkly. "You shall not disparage Miss Dashwood."

"I shall speak as I will!"

"You know nothing of her."

"I know she is poor!" Mrs. Ferrars spat the word as if it was the greatest crime in the world. "Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds!"

Edward raised his chin. "Miss Morton, respectable as she is, could have ten times that to her name and I should not be moved. Miss Dashwood's worth is above rubies to me!"

"Bah!" Mrs. Ferrars railed. "I knew I should have heeded Sir Robert's advice and sent you to Mr. Pratt's! A private education must be superior to a public one, my brother told me. But no -- you would go to Cambridge! You persuaded me against my better judgment! Cambridge is the source of all your wild ideas!"

"If you speak of a university education and becoming a deacon in the Church, then I should agree with you. I told you I should not be idle. Cambridge has been the making of me."

"It will be the ruin of you!" Mrs. Ferrars thundered. "I control your fortune! You will divest yourself of this unworthy alliance -- I demand it!"

Edward swallowed, seeing what he feared had come to pass. "You threaten me, Mother?"

Mrs. Ferrars almost sneered. "I can cut you off without a penny, should I choose. Do as I demand or I shall know how to act!"

The Rubicon was before Edward. Now he had to make sure. "How will you act, madam?"

"I will cast you off! I will change my will in favor of your brother, Robert, completely disowning you. Choose this bird of paradise, and you are no longer my son!"

Edward closed his eyes and sighed. "So be it. I warned you about your manner of reference to Miss Dashwood. You shall not see me again until I receive your full apology."

"Edward, no!" cried Fanny. "Think of what you are doing!"

"Be silent, Fanny!" snapped Mrs. Ferrars. "This is all your doing! If you had done as I had advised and instantly expelled those Dashwood chits upon taking possession of Norland, Edward would not be so ensnared!"

Fanny burst into tears, and Edward hurried to her side. Taking her hands into his, he barked at Mrs. Ferrars, "You will leave Fanny out of this! She had shown Christian charity to the less fortunate and does not deserve your scorn!"

Edward was aware he was grossly exaggerating his praise. He knew that Fanny only tolerated the Dashwoods for her husband's sake, and suspected she and his Brother Dashwood did not follow whatever intentions the late Henry Dashwood left for the care of his widow and daughters. Fanny had too much of her mother in her not to be selfish.

In spite of everything, however, she had been a good, loving sister to him. Edward's iron-strong sense of honor could not allow Fanny to take blame for actions for which she was innocent.

"If you must harangue someone, then do so at the only person in this room that has disappointed you, woman!"

Mother and son engaged in a staring contest, and Mrs. Ferrars was the first to look away.

"Take care how you address me, boy, or you shall be starving on the streets."

"Thank you for your concern, madam." Edward could not completely hide the disgust in his voice.

"I meant what I said, Edward. It is not too late. Be reasonable, and all will be the same as it was before."

"That is impossible, madam," Edward replied coolly. "My heart and honor are engaged."

Mrs. Ferrars' lip curled. "Then, where will you live? In that hovel in Devonshire?"

"You are well informed. No, Miss Dashwood and I shall not need to seek sanctuary at Barton Cottage."

"Where will you go, Edward?" asked Fanny.

Edward smiled tenderly as his sister. "For you, I will tell you. I shall take orders and serve God and my parish."

"A parish vicar when you should be a gentleman of property in London?" mocked his mother. "Do not look to me for help acquiring a living, boy! I tell you I will use all my considerable connections to make certain that all doors are shut to you. You shall bend to my will, if you wish to stay out of the gutter!"

Even Fanny gasped at her mother's unfeeling cruelty.

"Thank you for your kind concern for my well-being, madam," was her son's sarcastic reply. To Fanny, he continued. "Do not fear for me, dear sister. I have already had conversation with the Dashwoods' friend, Colonel Brandon of Delaford in Dorsetshire. Besides, a friend from Cambridge has a living available." He turned to his mother. "Do you remember my schoolmate, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley?"

Mrs. Ferrars' surprised countenance proved that she did.

Edward continued. "The parish of Kympton is in Derbyshire, only a few miles from Pemberley and Matlock. That is the seat of the Earl of Matlock, Darcy's uncle. Are you acquainted with the Earl and Countess, madam? Or Mr. Darcy's other uncle, the Bishop? No? Pity."

"Mr. Darcy has a bishop in the family?" asked Fanny, as Mrs. Ferrars stood stone-faced.

"Yes, a very learned, pious, generous man -- I must say, close to the Archbishop," Edward said with a glance at his mother.

"You have met the bishop?" Mrs. Ferrars squeaked.

"Yes, through Darcy. I told you a religious education was a suitable one for a gentleman. If I work hard and I am fortunate, Elinor and I shall live very comfortably."

"And…and perhaps, eventually, a stall in Westminster?" said his sister excitably.

"Perhaps, if that be God's will."

It was obvious that Mrs. Ferrars realized that she had been out-maneuvered -- that Edward had foreseen all possible outcomes of this interview and had prepared accordingly. Mrs. Ferrars had but one card to play, and she did so, knowing that she had already lost.

"If you marry Miss Dashwood, I will wash my hands of you. I will recall Robert from Mr. Pratt's and make him my heir. Heed my words."

"I assume you do not wish an invitation to the wedding, then," Edward said.

"Edward, it will be irrevocable. This is your last warning." Mrs. Ferrars came as close to pleading as she could.

Edward nodded coldly. "I have taken your declaration into account, madam. If you have nothing else to say, I will take my leave of you." To his sister, he was warmer. "I shall not place you in an uncomfortable situation and send an invitation, Fanny. You will not have to choose between us. But I shall write once Elinor and I are settled."

Fanny's eyes filled. "Thank you, Edward."

Edward released his sister's hands with a smile, nodded, and left the house without so much as a backward glance.

Back to Beginning of Section II

Posted on 2010-06-11

Summary: There are those who think that the dashing John Willoughby wasn't all that bad, and that Marianne Dashwood could have been happy married to him. Certainly, she would have a more passionate marriage than with Colonel Brandon. But passion isn't always peace. In this Sense & Sensibility variation, Marianne marries Willoughby.

Mr. John Willoughby, dressed in his hunting attire, strode down the hall of Combe Magna, his home in the county of Somersetshire, the morning sun shining through the windows.

The house, like the estate and its master, was neither grand nor affluent. The rents generated from Combe Magna's fields were modest compared with other estates in the county. The house boasted a very small staff -- half of what would normally be expected. Everywhere was signs of economy and even retrenchment.

But not in the dress of Mr. Willoughby. His hunting costume was of the latest style, and the fowling piece awaiting his attention in his carriage was less than eight months old. Anyone familiar with the details of Mr. Willoughby's situation would know that the gentleman dressed and purported in a manner of a country squire with twice his income. There was no economy or retrenchment when it came to sport or any of Mr. Willoughby's other entertainments.

Some would call that sort of behavior imprudent, but not Mr. Willoughby. He had expectations.

Mr. Willoughby sought out a footman. "Where is Mrs. Willoughby?" he asked the short young man dressed in livery that had seen better days. Told that the mistress of the house was in her study, Mr. Willoughby made his way there directly.

"My dear, how do you do this morning?" he cried as he swept though the door without knocking; the Master of Combe Magna knocked on no door in his house.

Mrs. Willoughby, at her desk writing a letter, put down her pen and tilted her cheek for the expected kiss. "I am very well this morning, Willoughby," she assured her husband after he straightened. "Did you sleep well? You are up early."

Mr. Willoughby gazed at his wife with proud satisfaction. The former Marianne Dashwood, only a few months past her twentieth birthday, was in the fullness of her beauty, something her slightly worn morning dress could never diminish.

"I slept very well, Marianne," said he. "I come to take my leave of you -- I am off to hunt with Sir John Middleton at Barton Park."

"Oh," said she, a little of the light fading in her countenance. "I see you are all prepared. Shall you be gone long?"

"Not too long. I shall be back tomorrow." At her frown, he continued, "Marianne, while Barton is no long distance, we shall be hunting until the late afternoon. Surely, you do not want me to risk traveling by moonlight. I told you this last night at dinner."

His wife's eyes flashed. "You did not, sir."

"I am certain I did."

"And I am certain that you did not."

"Dash it all, I must have forgotten. I am sorry, Marianne, but there is no reason to get upset over a little mistake."

Mrs. Willoughby eyes flashed a message that told her husband that this was not the first "little mistake," but she kept silent for amicability's sake.

Mr. Willoughby changed the subject. "You are writing a letter, I see."

"I am. Perhaps you may do me a service and deliver these. It would save us the postage."

"Then they are to Dorsetshire. Your mother or sister?"

Mrs. Willoughby gestured to a closed envelope before her. "I actually have letters to both. My mother's is finished, and I am almost done with Elinor's, if I may have five minutes."

"Take all the time you need, my dear," he said magnanimously. Mr. Willoughby took his ease in a chair by his wife's desk and idly watched as she returned to her writing. He was absently playing with his watch fob when a piece of paper caught his eye. Curious, he rose and retrieved it. What he read upset him.

"Marianne!" he said sharply. "What is this?"

Mrs. Willoughby saw what he held accusingly in his hand and flushed guiltily. A moment later, all mortification gone, she narrowed both eyes and lips.

"It is a banknote, Willoughby."

"I can see that! This is made out to Elizabeth Williams! What is the meaning of this?"

"I think it should be perfectly clear. As I cannot give money directly to your child, I send it to the mother."

"For ten pounds?"

She returned to Elinor's letter. "It is what I usually send."

"Usually send? Marianne, speak plainly!"

She looked again at her husband, but this time without affection. "It is the monthly stipend for your child. I send it by way of Elinor."

Willoughby threw the paper onto the desk. "You send one hundred twenty pounds of my money a year to a bastard?"

Mrs. Willoughby flew to her feet. "Your bastard, Willoughby!"

"You take great interest in the affairs of another woman's child, madam! I would look to your own!"

She shook in her fury. "How dare you! Do you claim I am a negligent mother to Henry? Tell me, sir, how I have failed in my duty to your heir!"

In spite of his anger, Mr. Willoughby saw that he had gone too far. "You twist my words, Marianne. You have been absolutely devoted to Henry. This," he pointed to the banknote, "is not your concern."

"It should be yours, Willoughby," Mrs. Willoughby shot back, "but you will not attend. Therefore, it falls to me. Besides, it is not your money."

"What do you mean?"

She looked at him coolly. "Some of it comes from funds sent to me by Mrs. Smith. The balance is from my pin money."

"Damn my aunt! She takes too much upon herself!"

"Someone must, since you will not do your duty."

Mr. Willoughby flinched at the verbal slap. He glared at his wife, helplessly. John Willoughby had never raised a hand to a woman in anger in all his life and never would -- particularly to the woman he loved. Besides, he owed his situation to Marianne. Not only had she brightened his days and warmed his nights, she had provided him with a fine, healthy son. She managed the estate finances with an iron grip, installing economy were she could and retrenchment where she must, allowing Mr. Willoughby to indulge in his breeding of horses and dogs, and in sport of every kind.

Besides, Marianne was the saving of all his expectations. He was the heir to Mrs. Smith and all her money and property, including Allenham Court in Devonshire. She was an exacting woman, and she was beside herself when she learned of his dalliance with Eliza Williams, ward of Colonel Brandon of Delaford. She would have disinherited him over the chit and her brat if not for her affection for Marianne Willoughby. It was only on her account, Mrs. Smith had told him, that Mr. Willoughby was still her heir.

Mr. Willoughby stewed for a minute, staring out of the window, to avoid his wife's accusing glare. "I suppose I should be happy that the child is being well looked after," he allowed.

"Yes, thanks to the generosity of Colonel Brandon," said Mrs. Willoughby.

Mr. Willoughby's anger flared at the mention of that hated name. He could not forget how the man brought him low -- embarrassed him before his friends -- by making him admit his fault with Eliza Williams in that duel in London, at the threat of bodily harm. Mr. Willoughby tried to tell himself that Brandon had been lucky -- that he had slipped -- but it was a lie. Colonel Brandon was the better swordsman and he only lived because of Brandon's honor.

It was not the only reason Mr. Willoughby hated Colonel Brandon. He knew that the colonel fancied Marianne. How much of that came into play when Colonel Brandon offered mercy to him, he strove not to think about.

"Yes, you are quite right," he bit out, cheeks flushed red in resentment.

His wife turned away. "Oh, Willoughby, let us not argue."

"It is not my wish." Mr. Willoughby kept is voice flat, so as not to further offend.

Mrs. Willoughby looked at the surface of her desk. "You will be leaving soon?"

"As soon as you finish your letter."

Her fine, lovely eyes glanced up, catching his. "Thank you."

He bowed. "I shall leave you to your writing, my dear. I will have a word with the steward and await you by the carriage."

She nodded and returned to her seat. For his part, he bowed again and quietly made his way out the study.

A quarter-hour later, Mr. Willoughby received the letters from his wife's hand as he had one foot on the carriage's running board. He gave her hand a kiss, climbed aboard, and was off to Dorsetshire. Mrs. Willoughby stood and waved until he was around the bend of the driveway. She then returned to the house.

Both went their separate ways, both just a little less in love with the other than they were when they awoke that morning.

Back to Beginning of Section II

Posted on 2010-06-16

In this Northanger Abbey variation, things are not always as they seem.

No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be a heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all against her in equal measure. She was the eldest daughter of a country clergyman, and while certainly not rich, she was not destitute either. She loved her family, her home, and her romantic novels and expected very little else out of life, except for a handsome man to sweep her off her feet and carry her away. As the chances of that occurring were very slight, her life was very ordinary.

Thanks to her friends, the Allens, Catherine was taken to Bath, where she made the acquaintance of Miss Eleanor Tilney, the beautiful daughter of a local retired army general, and her brother, the equally handsome Mr. Henry Tilney. Acquaintance rapidly grew into friendship, and just as quickly, an invitation to Miss Tilney's home was extended and accepted.

Catherine never had such an adventure before in her young life -- visiting a country estate as the particular friend of a lovely girl with her extremely agreeable brother as escort! Such things did not happen to clergyman's daughters from Fullerton!

Northanger Abbey was a disappointment, however. As a faithful reader of the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe, Catherine could not help but be delighted at the prospect of the expected gothic grandeur that was sure to be the Tilney estate. However, the reality was nothing of the sort. The abbey was a short, squat hall on level ground. Inside, the furniture was in all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she had expected to find the ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was contracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain, though handsome, marble and ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The windows, to which she looked with peculiar regard from having heard the General talk of preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential care, were yet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch was preserved -- the form of them was Gothic, and they might be even casements -- but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions and the heaviest stone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing.

Another blow was that Mr. Tilney did not reside there with the General and Eleanor. Woodston, nearly twenty miles distant from the Abbey, was his establishment. For at the age of seventeen, Catherine had found someone as worthy of her admiration as her dear novels. In Henry Tilney she found all expectations of her necessities of an agreeable gentleman. He was smart, in both mind and dress, and was clever without being cruel. And there was another accomplishment besides -- a depth of feeling she had never known existed in the world outside what her mother called her "dreadful novels." As much as Catherine enjoyed Eleanor's company, she anticipated Henry's visits with sweet eagerness.

The General, however, was not so agreeable. Dark and foreboding was his aspect. Catherine seldom saw him except at dinner, and sharp was his questioning of his visitor. He insisted on prompt attendance, and his only other command was that Miss Moreland refrain from entering any room in the family wing, save Miss Tilney's.

For a girl raised on novels Gothic, this was the same as an open invitation. Catherine longed to explore the bedrooms there, particularly the room of the late Mrs. Tilney. Ever since she beheld the portrait of the woman in the family chapel, Catherine was convinced that the lady had been a victim of foul play. Moreover, it was fixed in her mind that the perpetrator of the heinous deed was none other than the poor woman's husband. Why else would the General, usually so attentive, glower so at her at any approach to the prohibited room?

For several weeks, Catherine tried to talk her friend into an exploration of the chambers to no avail. Eleanor, due to fealty and fear, could not be moved. Catherine's curiosity had to be appeased. She came to the resolution that she would make her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be much better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To involve her in the danger of detection, to court her into an apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a friend. The General's utmost anger could not be to herself what it might be to a daughter, and besides, she thought the examination itself would be more satisfactory if made without any companion.

Of the way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress, and as she wished to gain entrance before Henry's return, expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage high. At four o'clock, the sun was two hours above the horizon, and she would be the only one retiring to dress a half-hour earlier than usual.

Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike. There was no time for thought. She hurried on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors, and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered. The room was before her, but it was some minutes before she could advance another step.

She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated her every feature. She saw a large, well–proportioned apartment, a handsome bed with dimity curtains, arranged as with a housemaid's care, a bright Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows!

Catherine had expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt first seized them, and a shortly succeeding ray of common sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken as to the room, but how grossly mistaken she had been in everything else! This apartment, to which she had given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be all that was delightful. True, it had not been used in some time, but it bore the mark of the servants -- not a speck of dust could be found. There were two other doors in the chamber, leading into dressing-closets, no doubt, but she had no inclination to open either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney last walked or the volume she had last read remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper?

No -- whatever might have been the General's crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for detection.

Catherine was sick of exploring and desired nothing more than to be safe in her own room with only her own heart privy to its folly. She was at the point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the sound of footsteps -- she could hardly tell from where -- made her pause and tremble.

To be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant, but by the General would be much worse! She listened -- the sound had ceased -- and resolving not to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door.

At that instant, a door beneath her was hastily opened. Someone seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs, the head of which Catherine had yet to pass before she could gain entrance to the gallery. She had no power to move.

With a feeling of terror not quite definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments, it gave Henry to her view.

"Mr. Tilney! Good heavens! How came you here? How came you up that staircase?"

He looked astonished too. "How came I up that staircase?" he replied, greatly surprised. "Because it is the nearest way from the stable yard to my own chamber; and why should I not use it?"

Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her lips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery.

"And may I not, in my turn," said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, "ask how you came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the breakfast parlor to your apartment as that staircase can be from the stables to mine."

She could not lie to his bright, penetrating blue eyes. "I have been to see your mother's room," said Catherine, looking down.

"My mother's room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?"

"No, nothing at all."

"You look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you did not know -- you were not aware -- of their leading from the offices in common use?"

"No, I was not." She changed the subject. "You have had a very fine day for your ride."

"Very, and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in the house by yourself?"

"Oh! No, she showed me for the greatest part on Saturday -- and we were coming here to these rooms -- but only," dropping her voice, "your father was with us."

"And that prevented you," said Henry, earnestly regarding her. "Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?"

"No, I only wanted to see --" She realized how foolish she appeared. "Is not it very late? I must go and dress for dinner."

"It is only a quarter past four. There is time enough."

She could not contradict it, and therefore, suffered herself to be detained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him.

"My mother's room is very commodious, is it not?" Henry said. "Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house. Eleanor sent you to look at it, I suppose?"

"No."

"It has been your own doing entirely?" Catherine said nothing. After a short silence during which he closely observed her, he added, "As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's character, as described by Eleanor, which does honor to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal."

"Yes, a great deal. That is -- no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly, and you -- none of you being at home -- and your father, I thought -- perhaps had not been very fond of her."

"And from these circumstances," he replied, his quick eye fixed on hers, "you inferred perhaps the probability of some negligence, some -- something still less pardonable?"

She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever done before.

Henry reached out his hand. "Come, Catherine, please. Come with me, if it be your will."

Without hesitation, she placed her little hand in his. Immediately, he turned and walked with her to his mother's apartment. A moment later, the two were in the middle of the room. Catherine could know no reason why he did this, except to prove to her that her suspicions were wrong.

He said nothing. Instead, he stood before her, both her hands in has. Deeply his blue eyes searched hers, searching for she knew not. She felt her soul open -- he knew her every secret, including her love for him.

In a soft voice scarcely above a whisper, he spoke. "Would you like to meet her?"

Catherine blinked. "I…I beg your pardon? Meet who?"

"My mother."

"Your mother!" she cried. "Is not your mother dead?"

A half-smile marked his countenance. He half-turned, never releasing his hold on her hands, and to one of the doors on the far side of the room, he called out softly, "Mother?"

At once, the door opened and a beautiful older woman entered the room. Her face was unlined and her hair a soft shade of gold. Her ivory dress was of an older style, at least twenty years in the past, yet it shown as if the dressmaker had just completed her labors. Her features favored Eleanor, but she shared the same blue eyes as Henry.

The woman looked at a shock-stilled Catherine with intense interest. Her eyes never leaving the girl, she said in a low, throaty voice, "Henry, is this the one?"

"I believe so, Mother," he answered. Henry turned to Catherine. "Forgive me, my love, but I must know."

Catherine felt her very mind invaded.

Do you love me? A voice filled her head. She felt compelled to answer truthfully.

"Yes."

Do you say this of your own free will?

"Yes."

Do you want to stay with me for all time?

"More than anything else in the world."

Henry turned to the woman. "Yes, Mother. She is the one."

The woman smiled. "I am so happy for you, my son." She spoke to Catherine. "Do not fear, my child. A kiss and you will join us for all eternity."

"Oh, yes -- please."

The woman floated to Catherine's side, her hands gently cupping the girl's face. "So pretty, so pure. You have chosen well, Henry. What is your name, sweet child?"

"Catherine."

"Welcome to our family, Catherine." With that, Mrs. Tilney lowered her face to Catherine's neck.

Catherine's world went dark.

Catherine sat on the sofa with Henry in Mrs. Tilney's apartment. They were quite alone, for Mrs. Tilney had retired to her room again. Henry began to tell his bride of their history.

"My mother's malady," he continued, "the change which ended in her death, was sudden. At first, we thought it a bilious fever. But she seemed to waste away, and no doctor could cure her. My father, brother, and I remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day, she died. As her disorder progressed, we saw her repeatedly, and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin."

"But your father?" said Catherine. "Was he afflicted?"

"Immensely. You erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her beyond all reason, I am persuaded. I will not pretend to say that while she lived she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper sometimes injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere, and he was truly afflicted by her death."

"I am very glad of it," said Catherine. "It would have been very shocking!"

Henry laughed. "Not as shocking as it was when she returned to us! Oh, I thought I had gone mad with grief, and my family, too, but it was no ghost. It was my mother, more beautiful than she was in life. Her death killed all illness. She was whole and well."

"And dead."

"Un-dead, yes. We do not know to this day from where the vampirism came."

"She shared her gift with you?"

"With all of us -- yes."

Catherine tried to take all the changes in. When she awoke from her swoon in Henry's arms, she knew her world had changed. She felt new and free. Catherine Morland was no more. Though not yet officially married, she was now Catherine Tilney and would be so forever.

"I do not understand. How can this be? You have been out in the daytime and Eleanor too. I thought the sun was the enemy of vampires. Yet, as I sit here in your arms, watching the sunset, I feel not the least discomfort. And you do not sparkle."

Henry laughed. "I believe that most of what is written about vampires is rubbish, my love, much like your beloved 'dreadful novels.' In actuality, only Mother is a full arch-vampiress. She does not like the full sun all that well. And she can only consume fresh blood -- not human, of course," he hastened to assure her. "She is partial to lamb, but cow's blood does well enough. The rest of us are gifted with partial-vampirism, like you. We carry on as we always did. The only exceptions are that we age very slowly, we are impervious to normal death, and we like our meat raw."

"But my meals here -- the food was well cooked."

He smiled. "We suffered so as not to offend your sensibilities, my love." He grew serious. "You now understand why we are so reserved. We can be destroyed by the frightened and uninformed. A stake to the heart, beheading by a silver blade, that sort of thing. We pose no threat to king and country -- in fact, Frederick, being invulnerable, is a great weapon for England -- but as we are considered unnatural, we are feared."

"And your father is gatekeeper to the family secrets?" Catherine stated with new-found prescience.

"Yes. He is perfect for the task, as he is naturally suspicious. It is why Eleanor's admirer has been held off at arm's length. We are not certain that the Viscount would accept the price of joining the family."

"And I was judged worthy?"

Henry smiled. "Yes. Thank you, my love."

Catherine's own smile faded. "Henry, what of children?"

"I do not know, love. As we are only half-vampires, we may yet be blessed." He pulled her into a close embrace. "I do want children with you, Catherine, but that may be denied. Will you hate me if it is so?"

"Never!" she cried. "My life is you, Henry. If that is all I ever have, I will be more than content." She shivered.

"Catherine, are you well?"

"Never better, Henry. I…I feel so alive! Is it not strange to say that? Yet, I feel…" She blushed. "Henry, may we marry soon?"

Henry's blue eyes seemed to glow. "Are you…impatient?"

Catherine's eyes glowed in return. "Yes! You know I am! Such…such feelings course through me! I can hide nothing from you, my darling. I…I feel completely wanton!"

His lips captured hers in a kiss that was so all-consuming that they would have died of suffocation, if they were still fully alive.

The door opened. "Henry? Are you -- oh, my!" cried Eleanor.

Henry turned to her, but kept Catherine in a close embrace. "Wish me joy, Sister. Catherine has met Mother!"

"She has?" Eleanor squealed. "How wonderful! Welcome to the family, my dear friend!"

Catherine left her lover's embrace and turned to her sister. "Thank you, Eleanor. But tell me, is dinner ready? I feel positively ravenous!"

Henry laughed. "Come, darling. We cannot have you starve."

As they left for the dining room, Catherine said, "And after dinner, we must speak about this viscount of yours, Eleanor. I think we need more gentlemen in the family." She laughed. "Oh, how right Mrs. Radcliffe is -- and how very wrong!"

Back to Beginning of Section II

Posted on 2010-06-22

In this Persuasion variation, Frederick Wentworth swallows his pride and writes Anne Elliot from his new command, the HMS Laconia.

Letter #1 – Capt. Wentworth to Miss Elliot

Miss Anne Elliot
Kellynch Hall, Somersetshire

Miss Elliot,

Pray forgive the liberty I take in writing to you. However, given the intimacy of our acquaintance, particularly when last we spoke two years ago, I do not believe it is totally impropriate of me to post this letter. Frankness and honestly have always been part and parcel between us, and I trust you will not think the less of me.

Since last we spoke, my situation has changed. I have completed my posting to HMS Asp, and Providence has so smiled upon me as to give my sloop the opportunity to offer good service to our king and consternation to our foes. Thanks entirely to an extraordinary feat of arms by my brave and resolute crew I have lately presented the Navy with a fine prize of a thirty-six gun French frigate. In gratitude for this action, the Admiralty has made me Post-Captain and given command of the vessel, re-christened Laconia.

The ship will be refitting at Plymouth for some months, and I have been given leave. In a fortnight, I intend to visit with my relations in Somersetshire. If it be agreeable to you, I would like to pay my respects to the Elliots of Kellynch Hall during my travels.

You may wonder why I make this request of you, rather than your father. While I respect your family, it would pain me exceedingly to cause you any discomfort. Therefore, if I do not receive an answer from you saying that such a visit is welcome, I shall not come. Should this scheme give you the least uneasiness, please do not write to me. Your silence will insure that I shall not enter your father's house.

Before I close, allow me to say that I have thought long and hard upon your words two years ago, and I have come to see the justice in them. I bear you no ill-will; in fact, my feelings are just the opposite. However, I hesitate to impose my presence on you, and that is why I shall not come to Kellynch if that be your desire.

Your obt. servant,

F. WENTWORTH, Captain, RN
HMS Laconia, Plymouth

Letter #2 – Miss Elliot to Capt. Wentworth

Dear Captain Wentworth,

Allow me to send you joy for your promotion and new command. I would be honored to have you call upon my family at Kellynch. I await you with every regard.

Yours, etc.

A. ELLIOT

Letter #3 – Capt. Wentworth to Capt. Harville

Captain Timothy Harville
Lyme

Harville,

I must beg your congratulations again, shipmate, for I am to be married! And to whom, may you ask? To the most wonderful woman in all the world! I know you think you know her, and Mrs. Harville is an excellent lady, I grant you, but none can fill that post in my eyes if her initials are not A.E.!

It is you I must thank for this happy event. You counseled me to put aside my pride and carefully consider Miss Elliot's words when she broke our engagement. I finally did as you bade, and I was humbled. What a fool I was! How could a penniless commander dare to demand the hand of a baronet's daughter? I deserved to be turned out of the house. I should never have attempted to engage Miss Elliot's affections until I could properly support a wife.

But now, thanks to the French, I am a Post-Captain with a few thousand pounds to my name. Now I can dare to set my eyes so high, and I have been rewarded. I wrote to Miss Elliot as you suggested, called upon her at Kellynch, and wonder of wonders, Anne -- dear, sweet Anne -- has remained true. Our engagement is renewed, and Sir Water has given his consent. I am in Somerset still, at my brother's in Monkford, giddy at my good fortune.

Say you will stand with me on the appointed day. I cannot marry without you and Mrs. Harville in attendance.

Your obt. servant,

WENTWORTH

Letter # 4 – Miss Elliot to Lady Russell

Lady Russell
Rivers Street, Bath

My dear Godmother,

I am grieved that you are troubled at the news of my engagement to Captain Wentworth. I would not distress you for all the world, if my happiness was not at stake.

Because I have now accepted Captain Wentworth, it does not follow that I am resentful of your advice two years ago. In 1806, I was nineteen and in love with a newly-made naval commander with nothing to recommend him, save his character and determination. He had no money, he had nothing to support a wife -- all this you said, and it was true. I allowed myself to be persuaded to be prudent and released him. It was the correct thing to do, and I cannot fault you for it. But in my heart, I did not give him up. I never could, you see, and resolved never to marry.

Matters are very different now. You would be very surprised how much Frederick and I talked of these matters -- surprised and proud, I hope. He has been made Post and has earned several thousand pounds in prize money, all invested in the Naval Five Percents. He has every expectation of continuing his success in his career and being able to supplement his pay and the interest from my dowry and his prize money. Before you protest, I know my father cannot release the entirety of my portion of the ten thousand set aside from my mother. Frederick and I have spoken of this. With economy, I should be very comfortable. You may laugh, but my needs are very modest, even though I am a baronet's daughter.

I frown at the words above. They sound so mercenary. But such matters must be considered. That is the difference, I believe, between nineteen and twenty-one.

Allow me to let free my feelings. I love Frederick with all my heart and have done so constantly these two years. He had assured me of his affections and devotion, and this is proved by our parting and the passing of time, at the end of which his feelings were as strong as ever. He admits he was wounded and angry when I released him. I truly broke his heart, he says. He was bitter. Yet, his better particulars triumphed. He thought and considered, and at the end, he was humbled and repentant. Only love remains, he assures me, and I am perfectly satisfied. And I have assured him that never shall I be persuaded again, unless it be by my character or his.

Please return home soon. There is much I wish to share with you. My happiness shall not be complete without your attendance.

Your loving goddaughter,

ANNE

Letter #5 – Capt. Wentworth to Mrs. Croft

Mrs. Sophia Croft
Gibraltar

My dear Sophie,

By the time you receive this letter, I shall be married to Miss Anne Elliot of Kellynch Hall. I would imagine that this news surprises you, for you have said that I would never find a woman worth marrying. I have, dear Sophie, for she reminds me much of you. She is strong and sweet and beautiful, and I know I do not deserve her. I am the luckiest man in the fleet.

We marry quickly, for my new command, the thirty-six-gun Laconia, is set for a cruise of the Western Islands soon, and we would rather have matters settled first. You may laugh, dear sister, but remember your own wedding to Captain Croft!

My interview with Sir Walter Elliot, Anne's father, was a true comedy. In my Number One uniform and best hat, I called on him to ask for his daughter's hand. He did not know me, even though we had met in the Year Six, when I was visiting with Edward. The walls of his study were covered, not in books, but with mirrors. One cannot get away from one's self! It is my opinion that Sir Walter is a very vain man and foolish, too.

His reaction to my request was -- and I quote -- "You want to marry Anne? Whatever for?" It appears the man has little regard for her. He asked many question about my background and connections and looked very disappointed, until I mentioned Sir Edward Pellew. That seemed to impress the fellow -- even he had heard of the rear-admiral. He was satisfied with my income and granted his permission with a curious remark. Again I quote -- "I suppose you are fine enough for Anne. Not too weather-beaten for a sailor, I see. Do you use Gowland's, sir? I quite recommend it."

I must admit I am quiet perplexed as I consider all of Anne's relations. Her youngest sister, Miss Mary, is a jolly and pretty thing and is on good terms with Anne, but is the most self-centered creature. She is always thinking herself ill, I believe, to call attention to herself.

The eldest Miss Elliot, Miss Elizabeth, is something else entirely. Beautiful, I must say, but I prefer the warmth of Anne. Anne is like a summer's day, when a man is happy to be alive. Miss Elizabeth is as lovely as a diamond and as cold. She thinks of nothing but herself and is dismissive of Anne. There is too much of the father in her.

Anne's great friend is her neighbor and godmother, Lady Russell. I cannot think very well of her, as she does not look favorably on the match. There is more I can say, but I shall not. However, I must forgive the woman, for she has offered to take Anne in her home while I am gone. It is very generous, but I hesitated and would not give way until she agreed that we shall share in the expense. I cannot say whether she respects me more for this or is offended at my determination. Perhaps a bit of both.

I should not paint too black a picture. There are good people in the neighborhood. The Musgroves own the Great House at Uppercross and are very kind. They have a son in the navy, a midshipman. The heir, Charles Musgrove, is as fine a fellow as Harville, and his sisters are very attached to Anne. It is well that Anne should have some friends nearby, as Edward is to leave Monkford for another, better living by the end of the year.

I am happy to have the Laconia, but I shall miss Anne. Again I hear you laugh. Should I bring my wife aboard, as Captain Croft has done? We shall see after this short cruise.

I shall write more soon. All the best to Croft, and all my love to you.

Your affectionate brother,

FREDERICK

Letter # 6 – Mrs. Wentworth to Capt. Wentworth

Captain Frederick Wentworth
HMS Laconia, Plymouth

My dear husband,

What joy it is to write such words to you! By reading this you know I have secreted this note in your sea-chest, along with a silhouette portrait. I hope it gives you comfort in the weeks to come.

My dearest love, words cannot describe how wonderful the last few weeks have been. Thank you for allowing me to go to Plymouth to be with you as you completed the fitting out of your dear Laconia. I know, as all navy wives know, I have a rival for your heart, but I will not share you with her until the last instant!

But, no, I shall not be missish. You must do your duty, and I must do mine. Worry not, my dear. Lady Russell and I shall make merry in Somerset until your most anticipated return. I shall sign this, the first of many letters to you, with my full name, as it is my delight.

All my love,

ANNE WENTWORTH

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