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Chapter One

Posted on Monday, 29 October 2007

"Anne, have you written to Mary?"

"I am just signing the letter, Papa," Anne Elliot replied. She had indeed written, a task her father and elder sister did not appear to enjoy. She did not mind taking care of it. Mary was fifteen and at school -- any news would be welcome to her and it was not difficult to write.

"Excellent." Her father returned to his newspaper. Sir Walter Elliot had lost his wife a few years before and he had only his three daughters, whom he found rather difficult to raise. Anne, who was nineteen, and Elizabeth, who was twenty-one, lived with him, while the youngest was still at school in Bath. He was glad for that and he wished Anne was still at school as well. Elizabeth, in spite of being most like him, was enough work.

"Did you write about our next ball?" Elizabeth wondered lazily.

"I did not devote many words to it, since Mary will not be able to go." Anne did not have much enthusiasm for the ball and she had consequently not been able to write about it. She had furthermore not felt any desire to make her younger sister jealous, something that was easy to accomplish. Writing about a ball and new gowns would certainly do the trick. Anne did not think it fair.

She had felt ill practically every day since she had broken off her engagement to Frederick Wentworth, a young and brilliant captain in the Navy. Frederick had lived near them for a few months and after becoming acquainted with Anne, they had for a short while been exquisitely happy and very much in love.

His anger at her message and his subsequent departure -- first he had run away from her and then he had left the area altogether -- had kept her sad, tired, and nauseated during the past few months. She was sure her melancholy had caused her to fall ill and save for Frederick's return, nothing could improve her health or spirits.

"But she will like hearing about it. And about my new gown."

Anne paid little attention to her. What would she do at a ball? She did not want to meet anybody else and she was currently too tired to be up for so long. Instead of sympathy, she would only receive reproaches from her family for being a bore who wanted to go home. She would want to go home. She did not want to meet anybody, least of all young men.

When they had parted, Frederick had said she had used him ill. His words still rang in her ears and they could still make her cry. She loved him and she had given him up for his own good. He should be free, not be tied down to a girl he could not marry. He had no money and her father would give them nothing either. It would have been better to wait, but this suggestion had angered him and he had been hurt that she would not believe he was capable of amassing a fortune in the next few years, something he did not doubt in the least. She wanted to believe him and have the same confidence in his abilities and good luck, but they could not live on beliefs and promises alone.

Lady Russell, their neighbour and Anne's godmother, had advised her to be realistic. After Lady Elliot's death she had tried to assist the daughters of her dear friend where she might, whenever they might need a mother figure. Sir Walter was an insufficient parent on his own. She would have felt she failed her friend if she allowed Anne to be reckless and foolish.

Frederick had nothing and there was no telling whether he would ever have anything. Even if he did get a ship there was no certainty, for much depended on luck. Lady Russell furthermore distrusted and disliked the young man. She had called him impetuous and immoral, only because she had once seen them embrace. No, his character had not suited her at all, despite what Anne had been able to say in his defence. Young Anne had lacked the ability to defend his character to another convincingly. She had recognised his good qualities, but putting them into words was something she had not been able to do very well under pressure, sensing acutely that her youthfulness and inexperience would be outweighed by the wisdom of her elder.

"Perhaps you would like to come to Bath with me this winter," said Lady Russell when she saw Anne's face. She correctly deduced that Anne was not looking forward to a ball and sought to give her something else to which to look forward. The girl had been out of sorts for weeks and that had been far too long.

"I do not like Bath," Anne said softly. Bath had never cheered her up and it would not do so now. She had been to school there after her mother's death a few years before and her memories of the town were sad. It could only make her feel worse.

"Nonsense," Lady Russell said briskly. "You only need a change of scenery."

Shortly before they were to leave, Anne began to feel better, but the noisiness and crowdedness of Bath undid it all in the first minute of being in town. They stayed in Bath only six weeks and Lady Russell was very pleased with the improvement in Anne's looks in spite of her melancholy moods. She observed that Anne had put on some necessary weight and colour, which she had apparently lost in the preceding months.

Anne did not care about weight or colour. She had come to realise she would rather have been married by now and living in poverty. Saying this to her godmother, however, was out of the question. Lady Russell had not spoken of Frederick again, evidently thinking she had done well in protecting her goddaughter. Anne did not blame her for looking out for her, but she wished she had not listened.

It was on a pretty winter day after their return that Anne began to question the gradual changes in her figure. Certain parts of her body had increased in size, whereas others had remained the same. Mrs Musgrove from Uppercross, who was the fattest person of her acquaintance, was fat all over. Not everyone was, Anne acknowledged, but the ones with the funny figures were mostly old and she was not. At nineteen women did not suddenly develop bloated stomachs. Not, she would say, unless they were expecting a child.

This caused her to study herself extensively in the mirror. Her stomach did look odd, she had to admit, but if she was expecting a child, where did it come from?

Anne had dwelt on the bewildering question very seriously and calmly, with no excitement or panic. Her first guess must be Frederick, but while they had once or twice been very agreeably engaged, she could not reconcile those activities to what she knew of procreation. It was not what an engaged couple should have been doing, perhaps, if they should not even kiss. She had at the time not really questioned it.

She was not extremely well-informed and after her engagement ended she had not wanted to think of the time she had spent with Frederick. Well, not of everything -- certainly not of behaviour that she ought not have exhibited in the first place. After some reflection she decided in shock that it was possible that in retrospect they had indeed engaged in the necessary activities. It was unfortunate that she could not ask anybody if it was truly the case.

A day later she realised the irreversible outcome of being with child. It would be born and then everyone would know. And she would not be married when it was born. This finally caused some panic and anxiety, for she well knew how she would be shunned and punished. But she had not intended to be sinful; she had not even known. It was not fair.

After a night of tears she still did not know how she might save herself. Frederick was at sea, she suspected. After leaving she had not heard from him again. She had seen his brother once or twice, but they had not spoken. From the compassionate look in his eyes -- which she hoped she had not imagined -- she had deduced that he knew the particulars of the ended engagement.

Even if Frederick had not been away, would he have wanted to save her? Could he have, without money? Perhaps her father would, to spare the family the disgrace, have consented to give them something to live on. Frederick had left six months ago. That gave her little time to act. She must speak to Mr Wentworth. He might know where Frederick was and he was furthermore an agreeable and sensible man who might not immediately judge her.

Anne was not too caught up in her own misery to think of others, however, and she realised that poor Mr Wentworth might be suspected to have had a hand in her condition if she was seen to meet him. He was a young and unmarried man; people would talk in any case because they wanted to see him married. In his profession Mr Wentworth would be expected to give the right example. She could not simply call on him, not living in his parish. People there might notice a change in her figure because they had not seen her for a while.

At long last she decided she must exert herself and take a very long walk. It was several miles and she did not know where she would find the energy to get back, but she must go. She would go into the church and hope to see him. If she did not, she might have to consider going to his house.

Even after frequent breaks Anne was exhausted by the time she reached the Monkford church. The curate was of course nowhere to be seen and the tears she had been holding back now spilled freely when she felt unable to get up from her bench. She was sure she was unable to walk back.

It was not Mr Wentworth who tapped her on the shoulder a while later, but his housekeeper. "Miss Elliot? What are you doing so far from home? What is the matter?"

Anne wiped her face clean with her handkerchief before she looked at Mrs Dickinson. It would be of little use, she expected, because her eyes would be red in spite of her effort and she would not be able to hide that she had been weeping. "I had come to speak to Mr Wentworth, but I had not the energy to look for him when I did not find him here."

"I am sorry to hear it. But Mr Wentworth is here. He ought to be. I was looking for him as well. Come with me and I shall give you some tea." Mrs Dickinson held out her hand invitingly.

"But Mrs Dickinson..." Anne was hesitant. Her thick winter cloak hid her figure, although it would be difficult to see much without it. She had seen Mr Wentworth's housekeeper only a few times, but it could well be that she saw the difference. "I would rather not raise speculation and gossip by calling on Mr Wentworth, because he has nothing to do --" She swallowed and continued in a whisper. This was the first time she would truly admit it. Thinking about it somehow did not have the same effect. "-- with my condition."

Mrs Dickinson was no fool. She gave Anne a quick glance from head to toe and then shook her head. "Nothing to see, Miss Elliot. The captain, was it?"

The slightly disapproving tone set off a flood of tears. She could not bear to hear Frederick condemned when she was certain he had had no inkling of the graveness of the offence he was committing. "You must not blame him. He did not know what he was doing. And I did not discourage his attentions because I love him."

"Very well, Miss Elliot. Come and have some tea with me."

Mr Wentworth arrived home half an hour later. Mrs Dickinson heard a door slam and left her office to notify him of his visitor. It was clear she had not told him why Anne had come, because he greeted her with a wide smile. Her spirits, which had just been lifted a little by the cup of tea and the absence of a lecture, sank again.

"Miss Elliot!" he said warmly. "What a nice surprise." She began to cry again and he immediately looked serious. "What is wrong? Come into the drawing room."

"I think Mrs Dickinson should remain," Anne sniffled. It was difficult enough to speak of it, let alone to a man who was also Frederick's brother. She hoped Mrs Dickinson could help her if she could not speak. The housekeeper had been kind.

He looked mystified. "Whatever you wish."

She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. "Where is Frederick?"

"He got a ship and he went to the West Indies." He spoke regretfully, knowing it was not what she wanted to hear.

"The West Indies..." she said softly, feeling utterly desperate. He was not nearby in some port. She would not be able to reach him. "That is a long way off. Will he be back shortly? Within the next three months?"

Mr Wentworth shook his head. "I very much doubt it. It is a long way off indeed."

"Then all hope is lost." She bowed her head.

"Why? Will you not tell me what is wrong?" he asked gently. "I know you broke the engagement, but I do not resent you for it. Frederick should have tried to understand you. He is young, but you are younger. You are, what, eighteen?"

"Nineteen," she said with a trembling lip. Perhaps Mr Wentworth understood indeed. That, at least, was a small comfort, but she must not fool herself for too long. "But you will stop being so understanding when I say I am expecting his child."

He looked very shocked and could only stare. Anne bent her head again and wrung her hands. He would disapprove and condemn her severely, without listening and then he would send her away without ever talking to her about Frederick. Then she had no other option than to go and look for him herself, which she did not know how to do without money or information. And if she went out on one ship, he might come back on another at the same time.

But then he spoke. "Frederick?" It sounded incredulous and disappointed.

She was quick to defend him. "It was not his fault. He knew as little as I did."

"I find that difficult to believe. One of you must have known something, otherwise you would not have known how to proceed."

Anne felt miserable. She would rather not think of it again, of how it had happened, as it had done her no good at all. "It is very easy to proceed if you follow your heart." And that was all she had done. He had loved her and she had loved him and everything else had happened as a result.

"But --" Mr Wentworth spluttered in incomprehension.

"I did not know it was that. I thought one had to be in a bed in a certain position," Anne confessed. She hid her face behind her hands.

Had she been able to see Mr Wentworth, she would have seen he turned slightly green or perhaps blue. "Do not share the details, if you please," he said. "Such relations are only to take place between a husband and wife."

"We thought only of being one, of completely reading each other's mind and feelings," she went on. She agreed with him, truly, but she had not known it was the same. And they had been engaged. If she had not broken it off, they might have been husband and wife. "Of being in love. I had never connected making children to being in love. I am sorry."

"Here, have another cup," Mrs Dickinson offered kindly. "Do pull yourself together, Mr Wentworth. A clergyman will come to hear worse stories. And if nobody ever made babies you would be out of work."

He pulled himself together at his housekeeper's request, although he quite clearly did not agree that it was justified to make babies simply to keep him busy. "They are not my favourite sort of stories," he mumbled. "I am shocked at Frederick. He ought to have known to behave in a proper manner, even with a girl to whom he was engaged."

"I am very sorry that you were deceived in my character," Anne said very softly.

"I was deceived in my brother's. You love him and forgive his transgressions, but he does not deserve it," he said in a very bitter voice.

"You love him too." She did not want him to be so harsh.

"Not if he ruins girls!"

She wept quietly, for the confirmation of her ruin and for his unjust condemnation of his brother, until she heard Mrs Dickinson speak. "I believe she came for advice. What do you advise, Mr Wentworth? For her to suffer? And your niece or nephew?"

"I am angry," he said. "At my brother. As I am in no mood to change my feelings in the next few hours, perhaps Miss Elliot would be so kind as to come back tomorrow at this hour."

Anne rested her head on her arms when she thought of the long walk back.

Chapter Two

Posted on Monday, 5 November 2007

Mrs Dickinson brought Mr Wentworth his hot chocolate late at night, as she was wont to do. Her employer had not stirred from his study and she found him staring into the fire. "Sir," she said respectfully after she had placed his tray by his elbow. She had not been at leisure to sit by a fire to think, for she had had work to do, but she had thought as she worked, about the same matter as he had.

Captain Wentworth had lived here for a few months and she had found him as pleasant as his brother. Different, to be sure, but a fine young man. His friendship with Miss Elliot had not gone unnoticed, as had his happiness after falling in love. She had only heard of Miss Elliot beforehand, but after meeting her a few times in the company of the young gentlemen she had heartily approved of the alliance.

She had nevertheless foreseen difficulties with Sir Walter, who was by all accounts very proud of his rank in life. Captain Wentworth, she saw clearly, would not have much to impress Sir Walter. It had therefore not been a surprise to see the acquaintance come to an end, however pained she felt on the captain's behalf.

His flight had been understandable. Even now she could not think him a rake, but rather a young man who had loved so deeply that he had crossed a boundary. She did not even blame his brother for having let home gone on unchecked, though she might point this out to him if he persisted in being angry.

Mr Wentworth had to her knowledge never uttered a word of caution whenever Miss Elliot turned up in Monkford unaccompanied. She had on the contrary been invited most warmly to have tea with them, which had been very proper, but if young ladies and gentlemen were allowed to wander about the countryside on their own it was no wonder that it had consequences. It seemed Mr Wentworth had no more been able to foresee the consequences than the young couple and he should therefore not blame them.

"I am shocked," Mr Wentworth said very superfluously.

She wondered if she could speak. He was her employer and he had studied for many years to be a curate -- though that was exactly why she should speak. "If people's actions shock you, you should perhaps have chosen a different profession."

"They did that!"

"Forgive my impertinence, Mr Wentworth," the housekeeper spoke. He was being too much like a little boy and not the grown man he was supposed to be. "But that deed is done. All that is left is a girl who needs help. She is a thoughtful girl who can and will lecture herself."

He turned towards her with a serious face. "I had never imagined it might affect not only my own brother but also a young lady I respected. All teachings become useless in this case. It is easy for us to judge others, but when it comes to ourselves and our loved ones..." He shook his head. "My opinion of myself depends on my reaction as well."

"You will help her." She did not doubt that. He only needed to overcome his shock and then he would realise it was the only thing he could possibly do. Yes, it might be at odds with what he had been taught or what he had previously been led to think, but he was a man with a heart.

He did not take her words as an order, but as the encouragement it was meant to be. "That sounds faintly like a threat. Will you not make my favourite dish anymore if I do not?"

"I may consider that," she said sternly, but then her face softened. "You want to help her. I do not yet know what you could do, but not being shocked is a good start. Have you never been in love?"

"I have not." He could not imagine that it would lead one to forget all about propriety. Would one not be more concerned about the reputation of one's beloved?

"What happened to your brother?" She had guessed, but perhaps there were things she did not know.

"She broke it off and Frederick took it badly. I understood that her family persuaded her."

"If they did that, do you think they are likely to support her now?" Mrs Dickinson asked. "She came to you. I do not think she has told them yet if she is allowed to walk around freely. She must not be expecting much good from them if she came to tell you first."

From what he knew of them, he supposed that was all too probable. Out of respect to her he had never dared to say he liked Anne Elliot far more than her father or sister, but he did. Sir Walter, who valued his rank more than was good for him, would not be pleased with his daughter's conduct and he would probably do very little to support her.

"She may only have you," said Mrs Dickinson.

"But I cannot marry her." He refused to marry his brother's girl while his brother was away. It was unthinkable.

"I did not imply you had to, but you can help her in other ways."

The next day Mr Wentworth met Anne halfway. She could see him from afar and she wondered about his mood today. It must be better if he could even come to see her. She was glad she would not have to walk all the way to Monkford. That he might not want to receive her there did not occur to her, for he waved.

"I apologise for my ungentlemanly behaviour yesterday," he began. "I should have realised that the walk was far too long for someone in your condition and I should have provided some transportation for you, instead of locking myself into my study with my anger."

"Are you not angry anymore?" Anne asked with a hopeful look. She had arrived home safely the day before, having met an elderly couple who had offered to take her part of the way in their carriage. She was nevertheless glad he met her here, for if she could not be taken back in somebody's carriage again today, she was sure she would collapse halfway. It would be worse if Mr Wentworth was angry to boot. He did not look angry, however, she ventured to think after a few glances at his face.

"Let us sit down." He led her to a wall and spread his coat over it. "Do not ask me about my anger. It will pass."

Anne sat on the wall with a little assistance. He was as well-mannered as his brother, who had also used his coat for her to sit or lie on. But she should not think of that. She apologised for her clumsiness. "Some things are beginning to be really difficult. I feel very large, even though one can hardly see it."

"I felt very large too, but that was because I was wearing two coats," he quipped. "But let us discuss serious matters. Who knows about you?"

"Only you and Mrs Dickinson. I know I shall not be able to keep it hidden -- the child will come out -- but I first wanted to know where Frederick was in case it could all be solved. Now..." She looked ahead sadly. "I do not know. Shall I be put away in a small house far away with an awful companion to teach me the error of my ways?" When she was at school her teachers had always mentioned this as a consequence of disobedience and impropriety, and the young girls who were mostly wild for entertainments and society had thought it a most frightful punishment.

"Your father might arrange for that," he said cautiously. He did not want to say that her father would probably not do anything better for her.

"But how would Frederick find me? Would he want to find me? You would tell him about his child, would you not? I cannot imagine he would not want to see it. He may be angry with me, but he could not turn his back on his child, could he?" She could not believe it of him. Frederick had feelings. He was warm and affectionate. He would care.

"I hope not," said Mr Wentworth, but he could in all honesty not see where the child could be kept until Frederick returned. "Though you must consider your reputation. You must consider giving up your child. Someone may suggest it. All things considered, I should prefer for you to live as you did before and not in --"

"I shall not be able to live as I did before, knowing I had a child," Anne said in determination. She would never forget about it. Her life would certainly be different, even if it died. She hoped it did not. "My reputation means nothing to me."

While he instantly believed a quiet girl like Anne could be very happy in a small house in the country with no engagements to speak of, someone had to provide her with money and that was the real problem with a father such as hers. If he had not wanted to give her money upon her marriage, why should he give her money upon her disgrace? Unfortunately the income of a curate was not large enough to allow for renting a second house and taking her into his was unthinkable. He must be reconciled to helping her, if he could think that, he noted. "But you need money to live on."

"Only until Frederick comes home. Is that not so?" She turned her hopeful eyes on him. He should not contradict that. It was the one thing she could cling to. When Frederick returned, he would have made his fortune and he would provide for them. Only his lack of fortune had been in the way of their happiness. She must believe in him and settle for a little less comfort if necessary. It would be more than a year later; he would have more money.

He sighed. "I hope so. However, you are nineteen and you must do as your father says, I suppose. I shall not be able to take care of you."

"I should not want to ruin your reputation in that manner. They would think it was your child."

"If Frederick had died, I would have saved you by marrying you," he assured her. "I do not love you, because you are Frederick's, but..."

She gave him a gentle smile. "That is very kind of you, Mr Wentworth. While he lives I can indeed not marry you. Besides, you should marry a woman who is willing to risk her reputation for you."

He frowned. "Willing? I thought you did not know what you were doing."

She shook her head. "I did not. I understand it much better now -- the rules and admonitions about propriety and conduct. Time alone does not only lead to a better understanding, but also to intimacy between minds and bodies," she said gravely. "One person is drawn to the other, to talk, to touch, but it is never enough."

Mr Wentworth shifted uneasily. Intimacy between bodies was still not the favourite subject of a young man of impeccable morals.

"I know we should have been stronger. You will say we ought to have known we were transgressing, that we ought to have known that even kissing was wicked, but..." She shook her head another time.

It was indeed very close to what he was thinking. He would certainly be very aware of doing something wrong, he thought, and fortunately he had never been tempted. How could Miss Elliot, who was such a proper girl, have given herself over to kissing without thinking anything of it? It was incomprehensible. He was interested in whatever it was that had caused her mind to go blank. "But?"

She hoped she could explain it adequately and she spoke slowly. "But it is not as with mischief or doing something that is truly wrong -- one does not feel the same. How wicked am I if I did not feel it was wrong? Instead I felt thrilled and full of love. Grateful that someone loved me. Me."

"I am beginning to understand it a little," he said kindly. "Despite my limited acquaintance with your family I can see there must not be many who do you justice or who love you as you deserve, Miss Elliot. But my brother..."

Anne saw his frown. "Who loves him when he is away? You and your sister are not with him. His crew will respect him, but they will not love him. I did. Perhaps what counted for me, counted for him? Now I regret even more that I spoke to him. There should have been another way without hurting him, even if I did not intend to hurt him at all. I had not foreseen he might feel hurt. I only --"

Mr Wentworth handed her his handkerchief. "There should also have been another way with regard to your affections."

"But how am I to know anything if nobody tells me anything?" She was a little vexed. The damage was done and only now did she learn it was damage. If she had been instructed a little better in these matters, she might have known. Frederick had certainly not behaved as if she was doing something wicked.

"Frederick should have known something. I do not want to believe he took advantage of your innocence and ignorance, but..."

"I cannot believe that. Frederick was as innocent as I was." She could see he did not share her opinion, but she was afraid to ask. After a few moments she forced herself to speak. "Why do you think he was not?"

"Because he lives among men, some of whom are noted for their...lack of innocence."

"Perhaps he never speaks to them." He had never spoken of them to her either. He had spoken of a married friend and a married sister, who had both sounded very nice. Never had he hinted at having friends with vicious habits. He never spoke of gambling or drinking too much, when many other young men did.

"Perhaps." Mr Wentworth wished he could be as loyal and trusting. "When will you tell your father? Will you tell me what he says?"

"I shall try." Anne hoped she was not too overcome by sadness after speaking to them. They would almost certainly not be as kind as Mr Wentworth. Reputation was everything to them and she was certain to endanger it -- theirs, of course. She could not imagine them giving her what she needed most, reassurance.

"How much time is left?"

"Three months, I think, but I may be mistaken about that as well. I no longer know anything. Does it not take nine months?" But from his expression she deduced he had no idea. "And our engagement ended in August."

"If there was more time I could have sent you to my sister, but regrettably she is in the East Indies. If there are only three months left I cannot send you. She is a good correspondent who dates her letters very precisely and who seems to have a good idea of how long voyages take, so I could look up where you would be after three months, but it is nowhere near where she is now. It took her longer than that to get to where she is."

Anne said nothing. She was sure that Mrs Croft was very friendly and she was grateful that he would have considered sending her to his sister had she been near.

"Do tell me what your family say. I must take an interest." It was his brother's child. His niece or nephew. He wondered how he could live after giving up a niece or nephew.

Chapter Three

Posted on Friday, 9 November 2007

Anne had been correct in her assessment that her family would not react as kindly and calmly as Mr Wentworth. She could handle their anger, she believed, but Lady Russell's disappointment was too much to bear. Her godmother had always held the highest opinion of her character -- which was why Anne had tried her first -- but it was painful to see her so hurt by this revelation.

"Oh Anne," Lady Russell kept repeating. "You were always so..." She thought of the sweet and gentle girl that Anne had always been and words failed her.

Perhaps she still was or she was never so. She no longer knew. She had not changed. Since then, perhaps, but certainly not before.

"I should have warned you earlier. I saw his dangerous character. Oh Anne!" Lady Russell lamented. Captain Wentworth's brilliance, fearlessness and sharp wit had never met with her approval, but she had not been able to foresee his character's disastrous effects on a gentle and persuadable girl like Anne. He would not have met with resistance, only compliance.

"His character is not dangerous," Anne tried in vain.

"He has ruined you! He has preyed upon your innocence, taking advantage of you in a most cunning, immoral way, only to satisfy his own desires. Where is he now, Anne? Has he not deserted you? A man who truly loved you would not have deserted you and he would not have made use of you in such a low manner."

Anne could offer no protest. He had deserted her, after she had first deserted him. Her arguments had been stronger than his, but what could she say? She could not believe he had not truly loved her. She turned away. "I do not want to talk about it anymore."

That seemed to suit her godmother very well and they sat in awkward silence until Anne remembered reluctantly that she must return home to inform her father of her condition. She wanted to postpone it, thinking one person's disapproval was bad enough, but Lady Russell was bound to tell him if she did not and then he would be even angrier for not having heard it from her directly.

Sir Walter's reaction was not fit to be repeated. Anne stood with a bowed head as she listened in shock to the words he used. It was much worse than she had expected, much worse. She had not known he was capable of such talk. Elizabeth listened as well, but there would be no sympathy from her, no interruptions to soften the blows coming from her father. From Lady Russell there had been laments, but from her father there was only censure of the worst kind.

Anne was tired. She had no more energy to counter accusations and condemnations that she considered unfair and unjust. He would say she had no right to think of them as such and perhaps that was true, so she listened in silence. All she wanted was the solitude of her own room and the freedom to cry as much as she would like because she felt completely alone.

"I do not want to see you at my table again!" cried Sir Walter. "And you are not to leave the house either. Think of the disgrace heaped upon us through your shameful behaviour! Upon Elizabeth!"

Elizabeth seemed to realise only then that the disgrace would taint her as well. Anne would rather not be attacked by both and she fled to her room before her sister could speak. She was not allowed to leave the house! At first she took this order very seriously, but then she wondered who was going to call her back if she left. Her willingness to be disobedient shocked her a little, but she must go out to speak to Mr Wentworth. He might be able to help her, whereas her father was not even going to try. Yes, she must see Mr Wentworth.

Her father and Elizabeth would care only for the effect on themselves. Nobody cared how she felt. She was tired and she was scared. Something was happening to her body and everybody spoke only about their reputation and hers. She had no other option but to go to bed and cry.

Shame, disgrace, virtue, pride -- with such terms had her father's speech been laced, but she recalled them only separately, as if the words connecting them had not made sense.

She had brought disgrace upon her family, her father had said. Anne tried to see how it could be worse for him and Elizabeth than for her. Even if she was sent away, her father would remain here. What would change for him except having one daughter less to live with him?

Would people really think him disgraced? She could not imagine it. Of their acquaintance, who would no longer want to speak to him? They were the principal family in the neighbourhood -- others would not dare to slight them. Perhaps if he went to London or Bath, but she could not imagine he had ever mentioned her there. If others did not know she existed, how could they care what she had done?

Anne reasoned pitifully like that for a while, but it was useless. Her father would not be open to reason, nor were the people he assumed would shun and condemn him. If he thought like this, there were bound to be others who did the same. In general she did not care for people of little understanding, but they could make her life difficult all the same.

It was to be hoped that Lady Russell recovered her former feelings for her, though her good opinion might be lost forever. Anne was saddened to think so. What would she do in that case? Mr Wentworth could be sympathetic, but he could offer her no material assistance. She supposed she was condemned to a life indoors.

Lady Russell had heard from an agitated Sir Walter and although she had tried to soothe him, she had been unable to. She was glad he wished to keep this scandal a secret, but she warned him that he must in that case not vent his anger too freely. The servants would hear and they would talk. She hoped he had not already said too much. News spread so quickly through the servant quarters and although he undoubtedly wished a deserving punishment on Anne, he also had himself to think about as well. Though he would think of himself alone, Anne would be helped by discretion as well.

It took some time before he was able to see a modicum of reason in this matter, but at long last she was free to visit Anne in her room. "Your father is speaking of revoking all your privileges."

"Do I have any?" Anne wondered bitterly. She was not disposed to trust anyone who came to see her now. Why did Lady Russell come to tell her every undoubtedly unkind thing her father had said? "What does he mean?"

"Meals, allowances, your fire."

"My fire?" Never would she have thought her father would let her freeze. It was winter and it was cold at night. She needed a fire. It was not a privilege. She was not a servant; she was a daughter of the house. Never had she thought of having to do without a fire. And meals! "Am I to starve?"

"You are to eat in your room, but I shall not condone his putting you in a cold room. However, I must agree with him that it is best if you are not seen outside for a few months, at least until you have given birth. The fewer people know about this, the better." Sir Walter had agreed with her on this, but her neighbour had not had any good ideas as to where Anne should be kept. He had thought that keeping her locked up would solve every problem. Perhaps when he was more lucid she could attempt to speak with him about the future.

"But my child..." Anne asked. What would happen to it after she had given birth? Would she be allowed to go out again, but not her child?

"You must give it up of course," Lady Russell said matter-of-factly.

Anne's heart stopped. Mr Wentworth had mentioned it as a possibility only, not with this kind of certainty. "Give it up?"

"Anne..." Lady Russell approached her and sat down beside her. Her tone became more gentle, persuasive, and she took her goddaughter's hands. "Think. Your father will not support you if you keep your child. Think of your fate. No money. Nowhere to live. Think."

Anne turned tearful eyes on her. "Why could I not live with you?"

"We should both be shunned. Are you prepared to have people whisper behind your back every day? To think ill of you every day? To live an isolated life? Think of your child's future. What sort of life will it have if it grows up as a bastard? Place it with a good family and come back here to live as you always have and both of you may live as happily as can be."

"I cannot. What about Frederick? He will come back." What if he came for her? She could never keep from him that she had borne his child and that she had given it up. He would think her weak and he would not want her anymore.

"He knew what he was doing and he left you here. I do not like dashing all your hopes, but I really doubt he plans to come back." She had given the matter some thought for Anne's sake, though before this revelation she would not have liked him to come back at all, but she had not been able to imagine his return. He had had his fun here and he would be seeking it elsewhere now. It was sad, but it was the way things went.

Anne cried. She felt too much despair to defend him.

"Anne, you must give up the child. It is the only possible thing to do. I have been thinking," Lady Russell continued. "I have my old governess. We can stay with her for a few months. And the child --"

"You must give it to Mr Wentworth." She spoke anxiously. If it must be given away, she preferred to place it with family. Frederick would find it there. It must not be made to disappear. "Please."

"I should prefer not to deal with any Wentworths ever again."

"But it is his brother! He has done nothing. Besides, he is a curate and if someone laid a foundling on the church steps, he would also have to find a home for it, would he not?" Anne clung to that idea. Mr Wentworth would not place the child beyond her reach. He would not be so cruel. It would be his own niece or nephew and he might place it where he could keep an eye on it.

Lady Russell had not looked forward to finding a good home for a baby, although she had thought it a task that would inevitably fall to her, considering Sir Walter's usefulness. She contemplated the idea of letting another take care of it. "Perhaps. I shall speak to Mr Wentworth and confer with him."

Elizabeth came to see her sister later. "How could you be so selfish and imprudent?" she asked coldly. "You have ruined my life."

It would not end as calmly as it had begun, Anne knew. Elizabeth was seething, but her good manners prevented her from erupting instantly. It would matter very little what Anne said, for the anger would surface soon enough. "I understood I had ruined my own," she replied therefore.

"Yes, thankfully! I should hate to see you get by without any form of punishment for ruining the family's reputation." She employed her knowledge of Anne's weakness when her sister remained outwardly unperturbed. "Our mother would despise you."

Anne had given her mother some thought earlier. Her mother would not have despised her. She was sure of that. Her mother would have liked Frederick and she would not have let anything come between them. It was impossible that her mother would react the way her father and sister were reacting. The thought that her mother, though no longer here, would support her gave Anne enough strength to oppose her sister's unfeeling words. "No, she would not."

"Of course she would!" Elizabeth said, looking a little incredulous that Anne would dare to contradict her. "Everyone would. You cannot seriously be thinking there is anyone who would still want to associate with you after your shameless conduct."

There was a lump in Anne's throat, but she took care to speak with indifference. "Why are you here then?"

"Believe me, I shall never associate with you again. You disgust me." Elizabeth gave her a look of contempt and she left the room with haughty strides.

Anne pulled a face. What a nice aunt her child would have. Her thought surprised her. She would have to give up the child and it would not have Elizabeth for an aunt at all, which might be a blessing. Mr Wentworth might make a nice uncle and that was a pity, though.

She laid her hand on her stomach. There was something in there, but she had not yet felt anything. It might be easier to give it up if she had never laid eyes on it. If she had never seen it, she might persuade herself it had never existed.

A moment later she doubted it would work. Even if she had not felt anything, she would know there had been a child and she would very likely always wonder where it was and what it looked like. Would she be able to look upon another child without curiosity or regret? If Lady Russell agreed to let Mr Wentworth find a place for the child and he managed to keep it in the vicinity, Anne wondered if she could stand it. She might suspect every child of the right age to be hers and it might not at all be such a comfort.

However, it was no use speculating on that now. Any arrangement would be evil because it would not allow her to keep the child, but time would tell whether the chosen arrangement was more evil than she had expected or not.

First she must strive to get through the coming months with strength and serenity. If she lost her mind now, everybody would certainly consider her unfit to share in any secret at all.

Chapter Four

Posted on Tuesday, 13 November 2007

Mr Wentworth missed his sister. Apart from the very natural reasons for missing a dear older sister, she would have known what to do in this particular case. He did not; he suddenly felt very young and ignorant of the ways of the world and burdened by the duty of having to take care of Miss Elliot and her unborn child. Perhaps it was not really his responsibility at all, but he felt it all the same. It was his brother's child and he always felt some concern about his younger brother, no matter how well Frederick could take care of himself.

He tried to imagine what Sophia would have done, which was all he could do in her absence. Letters would not reach her soon enough. Very likely she would have taken the child and possibly Miss Elliot along with it. She had a generous heart and furthermore no children of her own with whom the niece or nephew could rival. But she was in the East Indies and she could not do anything.

However, she might have an opinion as to what he should do. He imagined writing to her that Frederick's child had been given away and was now languishing in some orphanage where it would die before its first birthday -- before Sophia could have given her opinion. She had no children and to lose the closest alternative to it in such a cruel manner would be appalling.

The child must therefore not be sent away until Sophia could tell him what he should do. It was a relief to leave the decision to her in a roundabout way. Nevertheless, the child could not be left with Miss Elliot for the indeterminate amount of time it would take for Sophia to return. She would be ruined and the girl did not deserve that.

Being a serious and thoughtful man, he took a sheet of paper and wrote down the options. The Elliots would likely want the child to disappear. Disgrace and scandal would be foremost in their minds. If it was left to them, they would get rid of the child discreetly and nobody would ever find out where it had gone.

What did Miss Elliot herself want? He had no idea. Her reputation meant nothing to her, but she said that now, before she had heard any reactions. In the absence of censure -- and, more importantly, with an independent fortune -- she would wish to keep her child. Of that he was certain.

And Frederick? He knew nothing of his brother's wishes. Miss Elliot seemed to think Frederick would care and he would like to think the same, but he could not at all be sure. Certainly, if Frederick returned and heard this had all been decided in his absence, he might be upset, even if there had been no way to consult him and no other way to arrange it.

What did he want himself? He wanted to do what was right as well as kind, but that was difficult. He was certainly not in favour of getting rid of the child, though it would be best for Miss Elliot. Leaving the child with her to live in poverty was not desirable either. There were a few poor widows living in his parish, though untainted by scandal, and he imagined Anne Elliot living among them. He did not think he could allow her to live in such circumstances or worse and Frederick, in spite of his anger, could not want it either.

Anne already felt confined. She did not miss not seeing her father and sister, but the little company they had been providing had been better than nothing at all. Although she did not keep to her room, for her own sake she avoided meeting people when she walked out. Her disobedience shocked her a little and whether her father knew she went for a walk in spite of his prohibitions, she did not know, but she thought challengingly that she would only give up the exercise if the weather was too bad.

She supposed her father wished to avoid her, even if he no longer saw her at meals. She ate her breakfast and dinner upstairs in her room, and had not had anything to eat in between. What the servants thought of that she did not know. The maid who brought her food never said a word about it, though she had of course merely been ordered by someone else. All servants in the house would know she had been banned.

It soon became clear that even Lady Russell's servants knew, for that lady appeared after dinner with one of her menservants in tow. Anne's dinner tray had not yet been taken away and the remains of the sober meal were still visible on it. Lady Russell gave it a close scrutiny. "You are coming with me," she said.

Anne was forced to pack for an overnight stay and she was taken to Kellynch Lodge in Lady Russell's carriage, which she thought rather unnecessary. It was but a short walk.

At Kellynch Lodge she was provided with a more lavish meal and a bedchamber, after which she was sent to bed. From her window she would be able to see her home in the morning. It was too dark now, but she nevertheless glanced out. She was no longer tolerated at home. Kellynch Lodge was much like a second home, but that was by choice. There was a difference and she felt it keenly. It was worse than being banned from the dining room.

She considered writing to Frederick, but she had no idea where to send the letter. Mr Wentworth might know if there was a way, but Lady Russell would keep a better eye on her than her father, she presumed, and she might not be given the opportunity to walk out. Simply addressing it to Captain Wentworth in the West Indies would not do, even if Lady Russell allowed such a letter to leave the house.

Edward Wentworth had also contemplated writing to Frederick, but in his experience his brother would often be handed a pile of letters at once and therefore he might just as well postpone writing until he knew more.

His sister, however, was fixed in one location, albeit far away. Anything he wrote to her now would arrive much sooner than what he would write in three months. Her answer would not be of much use, arriving far too late, but at least he would have informed her and relieved himself of some of that burden.

Dear Sister,
I hope this letter finds you and Captain Croft in good health. Forgive me for not wasting more space on trivialities, but I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you. It concerns Frederick.

You may know he was given the Asp and was sent to the West Indies. Before that, he was living with me in Somersetshire. I cannot imagine he apprised you of the reasons for his departure from here. While he was living with me, he fell in love with the daughter of a presumptuous baronet. You will not want me to summarise the sad history, but the consequences in this case are more important than the history itself and I shall therefore be brief. The young lady's family persuaded her to break her engagement and Frederick was so angry and devastated that he left the country.

I believe Miss E. was equally unhappy with the separation and despite not knowing precisely what they discussed that fateful day, I cannot help but feel that Frederick acted in too much haste. I had not spoken to the poor girl until she came to tell me she was with child. Imagine my shock! I shall not waste any words on what I thought of my brother; it was completely at odds with what she thought of him. Quickly I came to feel I ought to help her. She is but nineteen and has only a father and sister who I think care very little for her. She is a well-behaved and intelligent girl otherwise, whom I had already accepted as a worthy future sister. You would too.

I do not know how the baronet means to dispose of the little bastard, which is probably how he would think of the child, but I am sure he will not allow her to keep it. Given the scandals usually arising from such situations, it is probably wisest for her to give it up. I can at present not think of a better solution. She is too good a girl to live in shame.

However, I thought of Frederick and you. What Frederick would want, I cannot say. He loved her deeply and while time could weaken his affections, not much time has passed. I do not think I could keep from him that he has a child somewhere. I do not think I ought. He might have done the right thing by Miss E. had he been in the country. He might even have come back had he not got a ship. I cannot allow his child to be sent to its death in an orphanage simply because he is not here.

Had you been in the country, Sophia, it is clear what I should have done. I should have sent Miss E. to you. You would have known what to do. I am at a loss. Not only do I need to reconcile myself to my brother's having behaved in such a manner, but I feel a duty to solve this to everyone's satisfaction and I fear I shall not be allowed to have my say in it at all. Why should her father come to me as she has done? He is all too apt to think lowly clergy beneath him. Speaking of that, how should a man of my profession treat the situation? I do not know whether to ask Dr Greene or to keep him out of it. It would be easier if it did not concern my brother. I ought not treat my brother differently, but perhaps in my desire to treat him equally I shall in fact be treating him more harshly.

This is very complicated, Sophia. I wish you were here to help me. Pray that next time I shall write with happier news. I shall try to inform you of every development, even though I know your replies will not reach me until next year.

He sighed as he folded up the letter. If he could not see a solution, how must poor Miss Elliot be feeling?

"What are you planning to do?" Sir Walter inquired of Lady Russell. He had gone so far as to walk over to Kellynch Lodge when he felt he was being kept in the dark. He had been told that Lady Russell had taken Anne with her, something that had suited him very well at first, but then feelings of indignation had begun to surface. He deserved to be informed.

Lady Russell was glad she had ordered Anne to stay upstairs with some work. Anne had obeyed. Her sister would likely not be as amenable to following an order, she thought as she glanced at the inevitable Elizabeth, who could not have come along out of concern. "I shall not discuss it in front of Elizabeth."

"I beg your pardon?" Elizabeth was ready to feel offended.

Although when it came to social engagements she always acted in the stead of a Lady Elliot, it must not be forgotten that she was not. She had no business joining in a discussion about Anne's problem. "You are not Anne's mother. Please leave us, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth was incredulous. "Are you sending me away?"

"I am." Lady Russell realised that Sir Walter might tell Elizabeth everything afterwards, but at present she must not be led to think she had any authority. She was merely Anne's sister.

"You cannot be serious."

"Indeed, I am very serious. We may come to discuss subjects that are unsuitable for your ears."

That there were subjects that were unsuitable for her ears was even more astonishing than that she could be sent away.

Lady Russell did not speak until Elizabeth had left the room and she was not at all displeased to see the girl walk back to Kellynch Hall. The subjects that were unsuitable for Elizabeth were equally unsuitable for a conversation between her and Sir Walter, but thankfully she had no intention of speaking of anything particularly unsuitable. "What had you planned?" she asked him. She would not go against his plans, if he had any.

"Why did I not have sons?" he sighed.

"What had you planned?" Although she had always suspected Sir Walter could be very useless, it had never mattered much before. Now it did and it was clear from his reply that he was not going to do anything. That meant it would all fall to her. It was not an enviable task, but she felt she would acquit herself better than Sir Walter -- if only he had the sense to leave her to it.

"I had not planned anything, madam," he spoke rather indignantly. "Should I have?"

"Anne is your daughter," she reminded him.

"I wish she were yours."

It was as if Anne were the parent and he the child. Lady Russell sighed. "You would not visit me if she were mine," she speculated. "You visit only because the situation has not yet been resolved."

"I must know what you plan to do," said Sir Walter. "You must solve this."

"I can only solve this if you do not cause any problems for Anne." With any other outcome she would consider the matter unsolved.

"She has caused problems for me," he said rather petulantly. "I did not do anything."

"Well, keep it that way, Sir Walter."

"Will you be taking care of the situation then?" He began to look relieved. "I should be much obliged."

"And I need your promise that when this is over, you will accept Anne into your home again." She hoped she was not speaking too boldly; it might be impossible to solve it in such a way as to please Sir Walter. "Do not forget that others may hold you accountable."

He was genuinely amazed. "For what?"

"You have not protected Anne adequately." Neither had she, although she had at least spoken up when she had seen the couple embrace. Sir Walter, she would guess, had never even seen that. He had never looked much at Anne and the engagement might have taken him very much by surprise. "Others may say so."

He stared. "That is preposterous."

"She is only nineteen. Whose duty was it to keep her safe? Mine? People will not think so. They will think, however, that it was yours and as such your banning her from her home would appear --"

Sir Walter stood up. "Nonsense! How is it banning her if she lives with you?"

Something shocking struck her. Now this was truly preposterous. "If we go away and return with a child, who is to say it is not mine?"

"You are a widow."

"I am no more married than Anne," she pointed out. "I beg you to give a thought to my reputation as well."

"Who could be the father?" he asked. "What a preposterous notion! You and a child!"

She frowned. In other circumstances she would never have revealed her age, but now she must. "I am but forty."

"But you are barren! And the crow's foot -- I certainly hope you will not think people will suspect me in such a case. Good grief." He sat down again.

"They may," said Lady Russell in spite of her wounded vanity. She resisted the urge to run to a mirror. "But you do not think I should care about my good name."

He evidently did not. "Dear Lady Russell, your reputation is safe."

"Sir Walter, a widow's reputation is never safer than that of a young woman who has never shown any inclination towards sin. And are you implying your reputation is weaker than mine?" She would in ordinary circumstances never have thought of speaking up against Sir Walter, but now she must. Never had his selfish arrogance come more to the fore than now. "You seem to think the only consequences are for you!"

Chapter Five

Posted on Saturday, 17 November 2007

It took hardly any time for Lady Russell to arrange their trip. She would not tell Anne where they were going, nor would she say what she had discussed with Mr Wentworth. She had only gone so far as to say that she had spoken to him. Apparently she had also spoken to her father, but she would not tell Anne about that conversation either.

Anne's cheeks were as wet as the windows of Lady Russell's carriage as it conveyed them away from Kellynch. She had no idea of their destination and in this foul weather she would not be able to see road signs. Sadly she wondered if she was ever to see her beloved Kellynch again. She had seen it from Kellynch Lodge each day and she had ventured onto the grounds on her walks, but she had not dared to come too close to the house. After Lady Russell had taken her away, she had not been in the house again.

Her stay at Kellynch Lodge had almost been ordinary, except that in the past she was always wont to enter her home at least once a day and now she could not. And Lady Russell had never been so artificially cheerful. Anne supposed now that her intention had been to improve her spirits, but she had only thought it very odd that Lady Russell had been so talkative, yet not telling her anything of significance. Anne had been interested in her future, not in books and music. Those could wait.

They had barely moved out of their familiar sphere -- north, Anne would say, but the chances of that had been greater -- when Lady Russell spoke. "It is not too soon to practise. You were Anne Russell, but now you are Mrs Elliot."

"Yes, Lady Russell." Anne could only sound detached. She felt detached. The words hardly registered. She said yes only because it was expected of her.

"You would not call your mother Lady Russell."

Her mother would have been kind to her. She would have embraced her and said it would all come right, no matter what she had done, but she dared not say it. From others she could expect no more than this and she must resign herself to it. "What would you prefer?" she asked, still in the same detached voice.

"That is for you to decide. As for your husband, Mr Elliot, he is best left at sea. Is he a captain?"

"No," Anne said after a moment. She was not too detached to think. If they were to fool people, they must not make it too easy to be found out. "One can look that up. An insignificant rank will do."

"And his name?"

That was easy. "Frederick." Poor Frederick would dislike it immensely if he was forced to bear the name of Elliot. It was good that a husband did not take the name of his wife.

Lady Russell rolled her eyes, but she said nothing.

Anne looked out of the window again. She began to feel quietly comfortable that she would not be known as a sinner, but as Lady Russell's married daughter. She wondered how her father had reacted. He might not have approved of his neighbour's willingness to take care of her with so little punishment. Or had he been glad to defer the responsibility? Either thing made her sad.

But Lady Russell could have been stricter. She could have ordered her to play the invalid, but it sounded as if she was allowed to go out and talk to people. Anne reflected that acting mysteriously would indeed only invite speculation. Of course a girl who was kept indoors would only raise questions. People might try to find out who she was and why she was there. A Mrs Elliot with a husband at sea would be perfectly natural.

"When was it?" Lady Russell suddenly asked. "We have been reckoning from his departure, but the incident may well have taken place a month before." Now that she thought of it, it was not likely that it had taken place on the same day.

Anne did not have to wonder which incident. The summer and everything that had happened had all been compressed into one incident in everyone's minds except her own. So much more had happened than merely that. "I do not remember the date."

"When was the last time you bled?"

Anne was confused. "Is that of importance? I do not recall. It has been a long time." Was that odd? Perhaps it had been exceptionally long ago, but she could not think how long.

Lady Russell sighed. "You really know nothing." She was to blame, perhaps, having seen to enlightening Anne a few years before because Lady Elliot was dead, Elizabeth refused and Anne had been shocked. She launched into a less vague explanation now.

Anne listened. It certainly made some sense, but it would not have prevented her from getting into this scrape. She would only have found out sooner that she had got herself into a scrape.

"When was the last time?" Lady Russell asked again.

"The last time must have dated from before we saw very much of each other. I do not recall anything since, but you know I am not the sort to make much of it." She might have felt a little uncomfortable if she was meeting Frederick, which had not happened because she did not remember it. Elizabeth always took to her bed on such days, but she never did.

"And when was that? July?"

"It could be." She had been too engrossed in her feelings to notice its absence in the past months. There had been so much to regret and to be sad about.

Lady Russell was silent and obviously in thought. "I am glad I took you away speedily," she then said. "We had best start sewing."

"Sewing?"

"Yes. You have a month or two. How are you feeling?"

There had only been Mr Wentworth's concern that she could not walk very far, but nobody had asked how she was feeling. Anne consequently did not instantly know what to reply to this question. It was voiced with some kindness and this confused her.

"I now understand why you were often unwell," said Lady Russell.

"I am better now. Should I still be unwell? How will it feel?" Suddenly she had a great fear of the unknown. It would be painful. She did not want to feel pain, but she did not know how else she would be able to give birth. Babies were large.

"I cannot tell you that. I have no children."

Anne panicked nevertheless. "It will be awful." She laid her hand on her stomach. Was it going to split open to let the child out?

"That is what you should have known beforehand," said Lady Russell when she did not know what else to say. She suspected it was indeed awful and she pitied Anne.

"I am sorry my conduct is forcing you to go through a lot of trouble on my behalf," Anne said contritely. It occurred to her that Lady Russell had had to give up her previous plans to take her away. She was being very troublesome by forcing people to take care of her. "I shall never do it again."

Lady Russell looked astonished. "As if there was ever any doubt!"

After a day's trip, they arrived. The house in which they were to stay was a pleasant-looking little cottage. Anne would have enjoyed staying in it under different circumstances, preferring the country to town as she did. They were met by the old governess, who, as Anne suddenly realised, might know that Lady Russell did not have a daughter. It made her wary, but there was no need for concern. Apparently Lady Russell had explained all by letter and no questions were asked.

Mrs Sutton had her maid show them their rooms, little more than a closet for Anne. It was enough. Lady Russell should of course have the larger room. She looked out of the window. There were neighbours on two sides, though large gardens separated their houses. She had seen the houses when they had got out of the carriage, but she she was not sure if the occupants had seen her. To them she would be Mrs Elliot.

Lady Russell entered and inspected the room. The clicking of her tongue and her frown showed clearly that it did not meet with her approval. "It has no fire."

"No, but --" Anne was going to say that it was no longer very cold, even if the prospect of not having a fire at home had been an insult. She was not at home now and she had no right to make demands. Most girls in her position were not this fortunate, she must remember.

"Come."

"But --"

"We can share. Mrs Sutton does not have a very large house, but we ought to thank her for having two rooms available, even if one is like this."

Anne followed her to the room next door, which was rather more spacious, though not very luxurious. It had a fireplace and a large bed. That was really all that was required. "Mrs Sutton is very kind to you," she murmured.

"She owes me a favour."

Anne wondered what sort of favour Lady Russell had done Mrs Sutton, but considering where the woman lived and her former profession, she supposed it had to do with money.

Dinner was a simple affair. Anne was glad Lady Russell spoke to Mrs Sutton, although she looked to be a kind elderly lady. There was no telling what she truly thought of girls who had sinned, however. She might well be polite for Lady Russell's sake.

They all retired early and Anne was glad for that. Although she had not wanted to talk, she had not liked listening either. She caught Lady Russell staring at her figure as she undressed, which made her a little uncomfortable. "Am I fat?" she asked bashfully.

Lady Russell tore her eyes away. "Is that how you noticed?"

"I did not have it before." Lady Russell's maid was even more curious and Anne laid her hands on the bulge. Perhaps Jenny had not been told, but she could hardly keep it a secret now they would frequently be in the same room. "It is a child. I feel something sometimes. Perhaps it moves."

"It moves," Lady Russell repeated.

Anne could see she thought this rather frightening. "It does not hurt. They are soft nudges. At first I thought it was my food, but now I think it is the child. I even have it when I have not eaten." When Lady Russell's discomfort was not lifted, she stopped explaining.

When she had travelled with Lady Russell before, she had always been given her own room and they had never travelled further than a few hours. There was consequently a lot to observe about Lady Russell's night time rituals as well. She had a maid who had come with them to assist her, but she furthermore had freckles that Sir Walter certainly would have commented on had he known about them. She did not suppose he knew. Anne gave a sort of snort when she thought of her father's usual fascination with freckles. He would be appalled.

"What are you thinking of?" Lady Russell inquired.

"Gowland's," she muttered, being too honest to lie. She was a little anxious, however, at how her answer would be received.

"You have spent too much time in that man's presence."

"It could not be helped," Anne said apologetically. She wondered if her father had ever recommended the lotion to Lady Russell, though he had clearly spoken of it to her. "It is that he mentioned it often, not that he would think you would have a great need for it."

"And you thought of it purely by accident," she said with a hint of sarcasm. "He suggested I have no children because I have wrinkles. I must have got them after Sir Henry died, if I have them at all, so perhaps I should in fact blame my freckles for my barrenness." She suppressed the urge to inspect herself in the mirror to see if she had too much of either. Sir Walter's remark had rankled her too much for her to have forgotten it or even to be as silent about it as good sense dictated.

"Or Sir Henry." When Anne perceived that answer was considered surprising, she clarified. "If the man is to blame if the woman has a child, as in my case, should the reverse not also apply?"

"You have become a little impertinent, Anne," observed Lady Russell in wonder.

"I am merely relieved," Anne explained hurriedly. "Nobody will shout at me here, I hope. Or is Mrs Sutton planning to do so tomorrow?" That was not the impression she had received, but since she was told nothing, she had no idea what would happen. Lady Russell might well leave her here and known that if she had known this beforehand, she would never have agreed to come.

"No, nobody will shout at you here. The moment for doing so has passed."

"Then I have reason to be relieved," Anne smiled. "I am glad you took me away."

Chapter Six

Posted on Wednesday, 21 November 2007

When Anne woke it was still dark. Surprisingly she had slept very well, much better than she had been sleeping lately and Lady Russell had provided enough warmth. All by herself in the other room she might have felt very cold. She was grateful to Lady Russell for her kindness.

A maid came in for the fire. Her closing the door behind her woke up Lady Russell, who sat up to take her bearings. "We must heat you some water. Who knows, the child may come out if it feels the shock of cold water."

"I doubt it. I used cold water at home."

"Your father really did revoke your privileges then," Lady Russell stated. "It is good I took you away. Did you have all your meals in your room?"

"Yes, I did." Anne did not say she usually used cold water, except when she took a full bath. She felt a little guilty for being so untruthful, but if Lady Russell could arrange it she would really enjoy the luxury of warm water when it was this cold.

"Unwise, unwise," her godmother said with a shake of her head that almost sent her nightcap flying. "The servants will talk. Why indeed should you be eating in your room? Hopefully they will think that you were unwell that short period. Imagine it continuing for months! I told him to mind the servants. Men!"

"What have the servants been told about my departure?" Anne asked after contemplating whether she dared to ask the question. She must not seem too impertinent or critical; she had no right. Furthermore she had no right to chuckle inwardly at Lady Russell's nightcap.

"I told mine that I took you away for your health. I do not know about your father's servants." She was silent for a minute. "Where did your assignations with Captain Wentworth take place? In the house? If it was in the house it will certainly not have remained a secret from them."

"No," Anne blushed. He had never come into the house for her alone. They had met on walks, by arrangement or not. "Out of doors."

"Out of doors?" Lady Russell looked horrified. "That -- out of doors?"

"Summer," Anne mumbled. It had not been cold at all. It might be cold in winter -- if one noticed.

"That must have been even more unpleasant than indoors."

"Even more?" She could not recall any unpleasantness. Perhaps a bit of pain, if she thought hard, but she had not dwelt on it. "Why is that?"

Lady Russell obviously regretted her slip of the tongue. She sounded embarrassed. "Ladies are not supposed to think it pleasant."

Anne had never seen Lady Russell embarrassed. It intrigued her as much as what she had said. "Why not?"

"Anne!"

"Am I very wicked if I did not think so?" Anne's eyes were wide and she felt some apprehension. No wicked person would think she was wicked, so her feelings would not be able to guide her here and she did not feel wicked at all. On the contrary. Everyone had always let her know she was the opposite. "Am I now not a lady?"

"Captain Wentworth is not a gentleman."

"But..." Anne was confused now. She was still a lady? "I did not think it unpleasant and you said --"

"Anne, please," Lady Russell begged.

She obeyed and did not bring it up again. Ladies did not speak of it, apparently, even if Lady Russell had spoken of it first. Anne tried to see how Captain Wentworth would instead have been a perfect gentleman if he had given her a child after marriage, which he would have been. Something was wrong with this sort of reasoning.

"But the water..." Anne spoke after a while. She was not eager to get out of bed until there was a little more warmth in the room and Lady Russell certainly did not stir either. Perhaps she was waiting for Jenny to hand her a robe. "The child will come out at some point when I am still with you, I suppose, since we do not know when it will come. What will you do?"

Scream for help, was Lady Russell's first thought, but she did not think she could say such a thing. By then she would probably have thought of something. She hoped so very much. "Do not worry about that now."

"But will you do something?"

"Yes, yes." She felt very guilty for her possible insincerity. "Do not worry about that now."

Although Anne assumed she knew exactly what she was doing, Lady Russell did in fact not. She had never even heard any particulars of similar cases and thus she had no examples to follow. She spoke to her old governess, whom she had continued to view as an intellectual superior even after she had grown up. It was difficult to change that habit.

"If she gives up the child, she may come through unscathed. But where does one leave the child?" She had come here without really knowing the answer. Her first priority had been to remove Anne from her familiar surroundings before anyone would find out. She had succeeded in that and now she must give a thought to the next move.

"There are intermediaries, I have heard," Mrs Sutton said cautiously. "Not advertised, to be sure, but employed by those in great need of a child. A boy will be certain of a home. A girl may be more difficult."

"How do you know of such intermediaries?" She had never known they existed. It was an option worth exploring. There might be respectable people who were in great need of a child.

"People talk. I can inquire if you wish."

"Please. Anne wants the child to go to its uncle, but of course he cannot take it himself. He is a young curate. Unmarried."

"Not good," Mrs Sutton agreed. "A young man, one she was acquainted with... Curates are no better than other men when it comes to young women."

"He is young and he has not lived there long. He has not the connections to place a child with a good family. He would like to, but --" She stopped. Perhaps she should let him take the matter out of her hands. He had not spoken of taking the child himself, but he had let his mind dwell on where he could place it instead. Perhaps he had come up with a good solution by now.

"Young men -- any men -- are of little use in these situations because they would be suspected of involvement. Have you reminded him of his reputation? A young curate who is not sure of a living must stay clear of such matters. Unless his way of handling them recommends himself."

"Why is it so complicated? It was less complicated when Sir Henry died and left me a fortune to manage. Being left girls to manage turns out to be much more complicated in the long run." Lady Russell sighed. She had never foreseen problems with Anne. Elizabeth's character had been difficult, but Anne's never had.

"It is not complicated, but it requires careful thought and sacrifices. And more importantly no regrets afterwards. The girl, has she no other family?"

Lady Russell sighed again. "Her mother was my dearest friend, as I wrote, and she has passed away. Her father, it pains me to say, is too vain and self-centred to be of much use. I was disappointed in him. He seems to care nothing for his daughter. I suppose it is no wonder that Anne was completely taken in by a cad." She loved Anne, but apparently that had not been enough. If she had known Anne was so susceptible, she might have been able to do something. She could have made her felt a little more loved, or taken her away to places where she might meet more deserving friends.

"A cad? Who lived happily with his curate brother?" Mrs Sutton raised an eyebrow.

"I do not know of any disputes between them," Lady Russell was forced to admit. She had usually seen them together, but that of course did not mean a thing. They might well quarrel in private. "I might have reconciled myself to a match with the curate, had she insisted, but she wanted the sailor."

This was of course only after her talk with Mr Wentworth, who had been all that was sensible and moral. His prospects and connections were likely as limited as ever, but his character, in which she had displayed little interest before, was above reproach. Perhaps he was a little too kind, but too much kindness was hardly a failing. He had displayed his kindness towards Anne and not towards his brother, which was a point in his favour.

She returned to thinking of the child. If Mrs Sutton could provide an intermediary, her task would be easier. Only the emotional business with Anne remained and no one could make that any easier for her. Anne had really only seemed sad about leaving Kellynch. The business with the child did not seem to worry her very much, as if she trusted it would all come right. That meant the blow would be very hard indeed if it was taken away from her irrevocably.

As a former governess, Mrs Sutton had a better idea of what a baby might need than Lady Russell, though neither had any idea of its size. However, Mrs Sutton had purchased two used baby gowns on the market and they could work from there.

Anne was kept out of these arrangements. She was being made to sew napkins, a task that, in addition to keeping her busy, she liked because she wanted to do as much as she could. The child might not need that many while it remained with them, but it could of course not be given away bare.

"May I go for a walk?" Anne asked. She had been sitting all by herself with her needlework, but Lady Russell had now returned to her. She had contemplated asking the question, but she had not been able to predict the answer. If she was to pass herself off as Mrs Elliot, perhaps she would be allowed to walk out.

"Of course."

"How far may I go?"

"Perhaps I should go with you," Lady Russell said doubtfully when she imagined Anne collapsing by the roadside or losing her way. "Something may happen."

"Nonsense, Anna," Mrs Sutton cut in. "She will have enough time to come back when it starts. Mrs Jennings next door was in labour for three days once. But do go if you enjoy walking."

"I will, if I may." She looked at Anne questioningly, but Anne was too affected by hearing it might take three days to give her an answer.

"You can walk to the end of the lane," Mrs Sutton suggested. "It is about a mile. You will not meet many people."

She had been right; it was about a mile and they did not meet anybody on the way. They walked mostly in silence, breaking it occasionally to point out plants or animals.

Anne had been wondering about those three days that it might take her, but she had not dared to ask. Lady Russell had indicated a few times that she knew very little of childbirth, so it would be useless to ask her if this was common. She tried to stay positive and think that if it lasted three days, she would indeed not be surprised. There would be enough time to call for experienced help.

Lady Russell was obviously not experienced help, but Anne reflected that she would like her there all the same. It was the closest replacement of her mother that she could have. It made her think again of Elizabeth's words. They had been so harsh and she could still not believe them. "Elizabeth said my mother would despise me."

Lady Russell was startled. "Elizabeth? Why would she say such a thing?"

"I ruined her life."

It pained her to hear Elizabeth had been so cruel. "Your mother would not have despised you. She did not despise people."

"She would have helped me."

"That is very likely. But I think this would not have happened had your mother been alive."

"No, she would have allowed me to receive Frederick in the house," Anne said seriously. And in the house they would never have been alone.

"I did not mean that, but perhaps you are right."

Chapter Seven

Posted on Sunday, 25 November 2007

Anne had been good. She never complained and she worked hard on the various projects Lady Russell had laid before her. Apart from asking for walks, she did not display any desire to leave the house. She had not once asked to be taken shopping or to do anything else that young ladies might like.

She had furthermore become unfailingly hopeful, a mood that her godmother found very difficult to mirror.

"You could always send me to the East Indies with my child," Anne suggested to Lady Russell one day. "I have given it some thought. Does one need any money on board? Once I get there I may need some to travel to Mr Wentworth's sister, but then she will take care of me. Mr Wentworth promised."

Lady Russell was rather astonished by such a remark. It took her a few moments to come up with a tactful answer. "That sounds like a very bad plan, Anne. Ships are not safe places for ladies."

Anne appeared undaunted. "But you once implied that I am not a lady."

"Ships are full of men wanting to do to you exactly what Captain Wentworth did to you." Lady Russell was horrified by the prospect. She would do anything to keep Anne from undertaking such a hazardous journey, especially an Anne who no longer saw any dangers. She had always been so cautious and prudent. While in the past days it seemed that she was still as calm and sensible as before, such remarks definitely pointed in a different direction. It frightened Lady Russell a good deal to be incapable of reading Anne.

"But he did nothing to me. Really he did not." She caught the pointed look at her abdomen. "I did that myself."

"No foolish talk, if you please."

Anne was not prepared to give up. "But if Mr Wentworth's sister got to the East Indies without problems, so could I. She wrote to her brother and she never wrote about problems, or he would have told me."

"She travelled with her husband, I assume." She recalled that Mr Wentworth had mentioned them. The husband was in the Navy as well. "That is a very different matter. But if you are not afraid for yourself," Lady Russell said desperately, not knowing what to do with such stubbornness. "Think of your child. A small child on board. It would fall overboard in an unguarded moment."

"While I was being chased by awful sailors," Anne said with a wry grimace. She did not believe in their badness. They were perfectly ordinary men, perhaps even more courageous and honourable than ordinary men. "Yes, perhaps. It may be dangerous for a child. I am still not afraid of sailors. I should simply tell them I was Captain Wentworth's and they would cower in fear."

"Er." There was no doubt about Lady Russell's opinion. She reflected that perhaps even an otherwise steady girl like Anne deserved her moments of foolishness. It was better to be told about them than to have them happen behind her back again. Now at least she was able to guide her away from bad decisions.

Anne had grown a little vexed. "But am I not allowed to think of solutions? Must I leave it to others?"

She had been working quietly, but although she had not spoken, her mind had not been inactive. It had gone over all the possibilities she recognised, even over some impossibilities that she had tried in vain to see as viable options. She would say she had done as much thinking as everyone else. She hoped at least that they had done some thinking, for no one told her anything. It was vexing, because she knew she was capable of improving on a bad plan if only she would be allowed to hear it.

She had known that travelling to the East Indies was not an excellent plan, but Lady Russell could have improved on it by offering to come along. But she had not. Anne gave her a morose look.

Lady Russell took pity on her. "Of course you are allowed to think of solutions, but I do not think this a very safe one for you and you would agree with me if you knew a little more of the world." Since she knew very little of the world of sailors herself, she thought it wisest to leave it at that. "What do you know of his sister?"

"Not much. She is married to a captain and they are in the East Indies. I have heard she is very kind. They spoke very highly of her. And she is a few years older than her brothers." The dismissal of her plan did not spoil her mood. "If his sister lived in England I could have gone to her. We shall only need to find a place for my child until Frederick's sister returns."

It was scarcely less scandalous to have a small child than it was to have a baby if one was unmarried, Lady Russell thought, and there was no doubt that Anne still meant to think of the child as hers if it was with that sister. She had not reconciled herself to giving up the child at all.

"You could offer to chaperone me to the East Indies," Anne said a little testily.

"On a ship?" Lady Russell was astonished by the idea.

"If it were faster to travel over land I am sure everyone would. But you are afraid of the sailors, I suppose. You do not want a child, neither a baby nor an older one." She turned away. "I am sorry to have been thrust into your care."

"Anne." Lady Russell looked helpless. She would previously never have thought of discussing these topics with Anne. "I would rather jump overboard than have a child with a sailor, that is very true. And to live in such uncivilised conditions on board -- if you wish to live in such conditions you can easily do so ashore, without being bothered by lusty sailors."

"But you do not want any child."

She stretched out her hand and stroked Anne's arm. "I am doing my best to take good care of you, Anne, but I do not think good care involves sailing with lusty sailors. You would have your child on board and by the time you got to the East Indies, you would be expecting another."

"And so would you, you think. The three of them could play together so well."

"You are teasing me, Anne." Lady Russell gave her an uncertain look. "You are too clever to think this a good plan. You must be."

Anne was reluctant to broach the topic with Lady Russell, but she had wondered where her child was going after the birth. They had not brought anything for it and all the things she was being made to sew might just as well be something else. Some of it was not recognisable.

"How long will it be now?" She turned her slightly fearful eyes on Lady Russell. There was much to fear about the moment. Not only would the moment itself be awful, but after it she would no longer have a child. She wished she could postpone it.

"I do not know," that lady said truthfully.

"Will you stay with me?"

Lady Russell had been fearing that question, but she had known she would not be able to say no. However, she also did not know whether she would be able to stand witnessing such an event. "I shall try," she said with an odd squeak.

"I should like to have someone with me. I should not like to be left alone with a surgeon."

"No." She could in all decency not leave Anne alone with a surgeon when she was so afraid. There was no one else who could stay with Anne instead. She must do it herself.

"Oh, it is awake!" Anne exclaimed. She laid her hand on her stomach and smiled. "Would you like to feel it?"

"No, I think not. Anne, perhaps you should not do that." It might make it more difficult to part from it if it was already being considered as a child. And she owned herself a little wary of anything inside the body, especially things that seemed to move.

"But I must. I can hardly ignore its kicks."

Lady Russell looked at her happy smile. When she was offered one more time to feel, she held out her hand.

"Anna?" Mrs Sutton stuck her head around the door of the dining room where her two guests were at work.

Lady Russell joined her in the hall when she understood there was a message Anne should not hear. Fortunately Anne had not even raised her head and she did not appear to be curious at all.

"I have arranged for a woman to speak to you. She will be here shortly."

She felt it as keenly as she would feel actually handing over the child. There was a decisiveness and finality about having to speak to such a woman. She did not feel comfortable. "Could you sit with Anne? I do not think it advisable for her to know."

"Certainly."

Lady Russell received the woman in Mrs Sutton's small drawing room. She did at first sight not approve of the woman's shrewd and coarse look, but she needed her services. Mrs Sutton had found her very quickly -- and discreetly, she hoped -- which was an advantage of having asked someone who moved in different circles. How her old governess knew of such practices, she did not know. She sat down and let the woman explain.

"I do not think --" said Lady Russell eventually when the proceedings struck her as unfeeling and cruel. Her conscience forbade her to hand over Anne's child to this woman. She thought of the evening before when she had felt the little thing. It was very much alive, though not yet born. It did not deserve to be treated so unfeelingly. "We withdraw our offer."

"You cannot." The woman had evidently counted on the money. It had seemed such a certainty. A young lady from a good family -- they never kept their babies.

"Indeed I can. You strike me as being more interested in the fee you would receive for your services than in taking care of the child." There would be a fee on both sides, she supposed, and it was in the woman's own interest to keep the child healthy, but if she passed it on quickly she did not have to take much care of it. The woman would treat it like a parcel.

"You want to be rid of the child. What do you care about its future?" asked the woman.

"We withdraw the offer," Lady Russell repeated. She was afraid she would be questioned about the child's future, which was as unclear to her as it was to anyone else. She told herself the woman had no right to ask. She must stand firm. "Good day."

"Those who work like me will not work any differently."

"We shall find a way. Good day."

Now that this plan had failed, she must write to Mr Wentworth that he should find a home for the child. She hoped he had thought of it in the meantime and that he had not like everyone else been hoping that another would take care of the problem for him. She was even guilty of such an attitude herself by writing to him.

It was the easiest and most selfish thing to do, she thought in shame, but poor Anne was not helped by it one bit if they all postponed making arrangements. Who would still be able to lay the blame solely on her if everyone failed her in the end? It would not be fair, but people would still do it.

She had not been unfeeling enough to dispose of the child, but by being unable to do so she condemned Anne to an isolated life. Which was the least of these two evils? There was no way she could win.

"How did it go?" Mrs Sutton inquired when she came into the room. The woman's departure must have alerted her.

"I could not do it." She sat down and covered her face with her hands. She was weak.

"I knew there was a chance of that."

Somehow the utter lack of disappointment made it less bad, although she did not understand why nothing had been said before. "You knew I was weak."

"Must you call it a weakness, my dear Anna?"

"But what am I to do with them now? They must live with me if Mr Wentworth cannot do anything." She supposed she had always reckoned with the possibility of Anne coming to live with her if she did not marry. This would in fact not be so very different, except that there would be a child and people would talk -- not to them, but behind their backs.

"You must tell her so."

"No. Suppose it turns out to be impossible." She felt quite clearly that Anne would be very happy with such news. "She seems tolerably calm now. I cannot give her hope and then take it away. I cannot tell her until I am certain that there is nothing else I can do."

She therefore said nothing to Anne.

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