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Chapter 9 (cont.)

"The letters have all ready been sent." His words fell into the cadence of his steps. "A carriage must be ordered. It will take no time to repack my satchel. Then the good byes." The rest of it was cake; it would be the good byes that would be his undoing.

As he rounded the house, Frederick was stopped in his tracks. There, sitting together near the shed, was his wife, in tears, with Dr. Abernathy holding -- no, stroking her hands. He watched for only a moment, then walked over to the couple.

"There. I think the olive oil will be better than the ointment. While I admire Hemmings' skill as a doctor very much, I think a less aggressive treatment may prove more effectual in the long run." He turned her hands, backs up, and looked them over. Pouring a bit more of the oil, he massaged it in. "And I have brought these." He leant over and poked through his bag. Lifting a wade of white, he said, "When I thought of the treatment, I went through Victoria's things and found these. You can keep them, they are very old. Can't imagine why she kept them." He shook out a glove and slid it on Louisa's hand. "There -- "

"Might I know what you are doing outside, Louisa?" the Captain asked.

Neither had heard him approach and were startled at his question.

Abernathy stood. "Ah, Captain. Take my seat, I'm nearly through here." He dumped a basin of water: it puddled and steamed in the cool morning air; and gathered discarded linen. Jamming it along with a large, cruel-looking pair of tweezers into his black bag, he said, "I came to visit Mrs. Wentworth -- uh, the other one, and found things in a bit of confusion and brought Louisa out here to treat her hands. I must say, you have done wonders, Doctor Wentworth, I did not think she would be up and about for days." Snapping the bag closed he smiled at Louisa and took her hand. "Now, oil them every few hours, and," he said, stooping to her, "I doubt you are at fault here. The Rector was not in the least bit angry with you."

She smiled faintly and nodded.

He bussed her forehead. "She will explain everything. Good morning to you both."

They watched him mount his curricle, leave the yard and travel down the road. He turned to her and said, "Confusion? And why are you dressed and outside? I left no word with Graham to dress you."

"Do not blame poor Graham," she said. "I tricked her. And then I sneaked across the hall to see Catherine. I was wild to see the baby -- " She suddenly frowned and scolded, "Why did you not tell me that there were twins?"

His first thought was a rather sharp reply, but thought better of it. "My mind was not on babies at that moment. Anywise, tell me what has gone on while I was out."

"And, you said you were not going out today. Where have you been?"

Frederick sat back, crossed his arms and looked at his wife. She shifted under his scrutiny; the gloves that now covered her hands became fascinating.

He leant forward and took her hands again. "I will tell you all about where and whom I was with later, but now I am asking the questions and I would like an answer. What has gone on in the house?"

"The nurse has been sent away and I am afraid it is all my fault."

"Who sent her away and why might you be at fault?"

"I told you, I sneaked in. Catherine says that the nurse did not like the schedule interrupted, and that included visitors. I hid so that she would leave the babies. They are beautiful are they not? I was shocked to see two of them. And Catherine says that Rose is the image of your mother. Is that true?"

Exasperated with her circuitous thoughts, he put his hands gently on her shoulders, pulled her close, kissed her forehead and said, "I know the nurse is a brute, the babes are the most beautiful I ever laid my eyes upon and yes, Rose is the image of my mother. Now, Louisa, you must tell me what happened and do it as economically as possibly, please."

Her gloved hands held his face and she kissed him quickly. "I sneaked in and Catherine called for the babies. I hid in the wardrobe until she had gone. I came out and we played with them on the bed. They are precious and I -- " she saw his impatience rising, " -- we talked, Catherine and I, and the babies wiggled and coo'd. It was lovely. We knew the nurse was to return soon, but we delayed too long -- and fell asleep. Both Catherine and I."

"So, the odious Nurse Nasty caught the two of you. What did she do?"

"She was ever so cruel," cried Louisa. Her color matched her niece. "She picked up Phillip so roughly that he cried out. She also said that Catherine was not a fit mother and that, if not for her, the babies would go quite uncared for."

"I can not imagine that Mrs. Wentworth would endure such treatment. Especially when she was not overly fond of the nurse to begin."

"No, she did not. She ordered her away immediately."

"What had my brother to say?"

"When he heard the noise coming from the nursery -- she was slamming things about and muttering so -- he came up and inquired of her." She looked away and bit her lip. It was clear she had no wish to tell him more. He urged her on.

"The door closed," she said quietly, "and there was a low exchange ... then suddenly the Rector's voice ... he was shouting. I had never heard that before."

Frederick had to give it considerable thought, but finally remembered when he had last heard his brother raise his voice. It had been more years than he cared to count.

"She made no reply and then I heard the door slam again. It was her leaving."

"Where were you during all this?"

"Still lying on the bed with Catherine. We were shocked by what the woman said and then the Rector ... it was chaos."

Her face was grey and her eyes frightened. "And you think you are the cause of all this?"

"My sneaking in certainly did not help matters, I think. And I have caused a great deal of upheaval over the past days."

"No," he said, "surely not. But I think another's hand lit the fuse on this particular bomb and you had the bad luck to be in the area when it exploded. As for the other, unless you are telling me that you wished to be taken away by Randwick, I can't see that it is your fault either."

"I always seem to be doing the wrong thing, or trusting the wrong person."

"How so?"

She gave an abbreviated account of her dealings with Levant and how Randwick had offered her sympathy and then, seemingly, outright help. "When I got in the carriage, I thought he was my salvation. I soon realised he was nothing of the sort."

Frederick had listened quietly, saying nothing, asking no questions.

"You are angry. I can't blame you, but I thought there was no other choice. Mr. Levant was very plain about the Rector."

"So you were going to give him fifty pounds."

She straightened, as though she were preparing to defend herself. "I will not lie to you. I would have given him the whole of the account, if your Mr. Putnam had not been so stinting. You said that I should have it all if I liked."

The Captain held up his hands. "Putnam acted on his own. I left no restrictions. He most likely thought he was saving me from the whimsy of a young and silly woman." He leant forward and brushed her lips with his own. "He did not realise what you were trying to do for my family."

"No, not your family," she said, shaking her head. "My family. I am a Wentworth and they are my family now."

He nodded. "Yes, you are a Wentworth. Stubborn, intractable, and very brave."

"Not very."

"I shan't argue the point. And the rest of the tale about Nurse Nasty Face will have to wait." It was time for him to talk. "I am afraid we have had some bad news." He gently took one of her gloved hands in his own. "That letter this morning. It was about the posting in Portsmouth. It has been set aside."

Louisa grasped his hand with both hers. She blinked. "So, we shall have no home together." With a weak smile she looked at him and continued. "After all is said and done we are no worse off than we were to begin with. I will stay here and be happy about it." Sitting up she leant against the wall of the shed.

He stood and offered her a hand. "I hope you are not counting on that."

She looked up, took his hand and slowly got to her feet. Taking his arm, she said, "You have spoken to the Rector, he wants me gone."

"You are a goose today," he said, stopping. "Nothing of the sort." He continued to the house. "I shall explain it all to you after we get you back in bed." He took her hand and kissed it. "I must say, the gloves add an air of elegance to your injuries."

She held on hand up and played at examining it. "Yes, I think you are right."

"Shows real breeding and quality, I think. How many are able to take something so ordinary as shredded palms and make it so refined? Only the French, I think."

"The French?" she cried. "Please, explain how I am like the French."

"All you must do is look at their aristocracy. Ordinary. Plain. Some of them viciously ugly, in fact. But with a little paint and guilt, voila, elegance personified. Just like your gloves."

"Oh stop it, Frederick," she laughed. "You are making my sides hurt."

"Oh, perhaps you could do something to make bruised ribs all the rage," he said. "Jewel encrusted binding?"

"Stop. You are being ridiculous."

"Bindings to compliment the occasion. Muslin for the country, silk for the city -- "

"Stop, you are doing this deliberately -- "

Holding open the door, he helped her up the stairs and as she passed into the house he asked, "Would feathers be over the top, do you think?"

Penelope sighed unhappily. In spite of the roses, it had been an utterly wretched day. Sir Walter and Elizabeth had each retired to take a nap in preparation for the evening ahead, but Penelope could not sleep. What she wanted to do was cry, but she was too angry for that. She could only stand at the drawing room windows and stare out at the street below.

It was now painfully obvious that the baronet had not sent the flowers. Quite the contrary, he had suggested that she leave them, and just when he had begun to soften in his manner! Could it be that he cared nothing for her, even after all this time? This was difficult to believe, for last night he had been so attentive and affectionate!

That horrid house party in Richmond was to blame! It was set to begin only days after Anne's wedding. Penelope knew that unless she could change Sir Walter's mind, her life was about to take a sudden, drastic turn -- one which had nothing to do with any Secret Admirer!

Once I am gone back to Crewkherne (hateful place!), shall he truly invite me to return? she wondered. Or have I lost my only opportunity to attach him? Her eyes narrowed. She simply must find a way to change his mind, and soon! But her train of thought was interrupted by the opening of the drawing room door. Penelope gave a tiny snort of vexation; it was Mr. Elliot.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said dully. "The baronet and Miss Elliot are not here." She then turned back to the window, hoping that he would take the hint and go away.

But William Elliot was all politeness. "Then perhaps I may keep you company in their stead," he replied genially, and came fully into the room. "How have you been enjoying your afternoon, Mrs. Clay? Have there been any callers?"

"Only Captain Benwick," she answered, as she lowered herself into a chair. "He came to inquire for news about Anne but did not stay."

There was a pause. "I see. And ... has the baronet had any letter from her yet?" he asked lightly.

Penelope pursed her lips. "Oh, surely not so soon, sir," she replied. "Lady Russell is not the sort of person to send letters by express. I have heard her say so several times." Feeling she had done her conversational duty, Penelope lapsed into silence.

But William Elliot seemed determined to converse. "I see you have your roses here," he said, in a decidedly friendly way. "They are even more lovely than they were this morning."

"Thank you." Penelope turned to watch him from beneath half-lowered lids. What was the man about? Why must he take a seat so close beside hers?

"Have you any idea who the sender might be?"

"None whatsoever, sir."

"Ah." He gave her a knowing smile. "Perhaps that may be best, after all," he said sagely. "For would not knowing the man's identity spoil the romance of it?"

"I do not know; how should I?" she replied crisply. "There has been very little romance in my sad life, Mr. Elliot."

William did not reply to this right away. At last, he leaned forward. "I happen to know that these roses were sent to you as an apology," he confided, very softly, "from someone who has been abominably rude to you of late." He hesitated. "I believe he is sorry and would like to make amends."

Penelope could not conceal her astonishment, but said nothing.

"But I wonder whether you will enjoy these poor flowers any more after I tell you his name?"

Naturally, Penelope was extremely curious, but she was too proud to ask. Instead, she quipped, "The only one who has been extremely rude to me, sir, is you!"

Then William Elliot did an odd thing. He rose from his chair and made her a very pretty bow. "It is as you say," he said softly. "How may anything be hidden from one as perceptive as you?" He looked deeply into her eyes. "Please remember," he murmured, "he is sorry and would like to make amends."

Mr. Elliot then turned and made for the drawing room door. As he opened it, he gave her a final look and a wistful smile. Then he was gone, leaving Penelope Clay to stare after him in wonder.

Chapter 10

Lady Russell had just finished arranging the tea things to her satisfaction, when Longwell came into the Lodge parlour and shut the door behind him. He looked a bit harried.

"Two, er, gentlemen of the Navy have just arrived, my lady," he said, with awful irony. "They are insisting on an, er, audience with yourself."

"An audience?" Lady Russell set the teapot down. "Good heavens. What do I want with two sailors?" She inclined her head. "I am not at home, Longwell, to them or to anyone. Send them away."

"Very good, my lady."

"But! Pardon me," Anne intervened, "if these are men of the Navy, ma'am, perhaps they come from Captain Benwick."

"From Captain ...? Oh!" Lady Russell's brow cleared. "Yes, yes, of course, to assist Mr. Charles! Though it is curious that they should wish to speak to me. Very well, show them in, Longwell."

As the man departed, Lady Russell took a bracing sip of tea. "Bless me, this is a fine turn of events!" she complained. "Imagine, utter strangers, admitted into my parlour upon demand!" She gave Anne a look over the rim of her teacup. "I hope they are not hideously uncouth, my dear! Or, dangerous."

"If James has sent them to guard us from Mr. Elliot," Anne replied, "I rather hope they are."

The sailors' appearance was not precisely hideous, though their attire could never be called fashionable. Nor were they ill-mannered. Quite the contrary, they were painfully respectful, and gazed upon the two women with undisguised admiration. Nevertheless, the older of the two, whose vast shoulders were squeezed tightly into an ancient frock coat, did look as rustic and 'sailorish' as Lady Russell could wish. The other, an angular man who was obviously mindful to be on his best behaviour, did the talking.

"I am Lieutenant Gale, your honorable ladyship," he said, with a formal bow. "And this is Blunt, er, Harry Blunt, I should say. Our helmsman." Blunt likewise bowed, though rather awkwardly, as his hefty frame did not seem to lend itself to bending at the middle. Lieutenant Gale observed this manoeuvre and, satisfied with his companion's performance, continued on with his speech. "We come by order of Captain James Benwick to offer assistance to a Mr. Charles Musgrove. If you could kindly tell us of that gentleman's whereabouts, my lady, we'll be off."

Lady Russell blinked. "I see," she said politely. "I am afraid I have no idea where he might be, unfortunately. Perhaps you should search the shrubbery at the rear of the Lodge."

Mr. Gale considered this, and then said, uncomfortably, "Begging your ladyship's pardon, that's just the trouble. We thought it best to apply to you first, open-like, so as not to be mistook for the enemy. If you know what I mean, ma'am."

"A wise precaution, Lieutenant," said Anne, gracefully rising from her chair. She turned to face her godmother. "If you've no objection, ma'am, I'll take these men to Charles right away. It shouldn't be too difficult to locate him." She gave the officer a sunny smile. "And I trust I won't be mistaken for the enemy, sir."

"You, Miss? N-no," the lieutenant stammered. "Not ever!"

"I say! That there's a nacky notion, Mister Gale, ain't it?" Blunt said, as soon as the threesome was out of doors. "Dressin' like wimmen to get past the guard!"

"Dressing like, what?" Mr. Gale winced. "Blunt," he said with weary patience, "no self-respecting man would don a petticoat for any reason! Especially that one!" He eyed Anne and added impressively, "It's excessively ... infra dig!"*

"Guess that's so," mumbled Blunt, abashed. "But the Cap'n, he sed to be watchful, as that Elliot fella's wonderous clever. 'Up for 'most anything,' he sed. 'An I was thinkin' he might even try ..."

"You are quite right, Mister Blunt, and I thank you," Anne broke in. "Mr. Elliot is a thoroughgoing scoundrel. He would indeed be 'up for almost anything.' You do well to trust no one."

Blunt's round, sunburnt face now turned an even deeper shade of red. He muttered something inarticulate and scuffed his shoes, now and again casting shy, grateful looks at Anne as they walked along. At last, the shrubbery was gained. Anne called out for Charles and was answered, and the men were introduced. Charles and Lieutenant Gale were soon deep in conversation about firearms and the particulars for standing watch.

Anne was left apart with Blunt; she cast about for something to say to him, but was at a loss. How should one converse with an ordinary seaman? She was about to offer a comment on the fine weather, but the words died on her lips, for Blunt was watching her carefully. He shot a look at his commanding officer, and then back at her. A sly look crossed his homely face as he cautiously pulled a flat, square packet from his coat pocket.

"A-hem! Miss, er, Elliot," he began bashfully, turning the package over and over in his hands, "We ain't exactly strangers to the Cap'n, y'know. Mister Gale, he was fust mate when we was on the Grappler," he explained. "Now, the Cap'n, he giv'd me very 'splicit orders, Miss. 'Blunt,' ses he, an' he was smiling all over his face as he sed it, 'This here's a letter for Miss Anne Elliot. But you must take care t'give it to the right lady.' An' by how he 'ascribed you, miss, I know'd you was the one."

"I know'd it was you," continued Blunt shyly, " 'acos the Cap'n sed you 'ad eyes that was the kindest in all the world. It was beau-tiful what he sed; I aint able to recall all of it. Somethin' about a-comin' in out o'the cold to sit afore a warm fire. That's what he sed your smile was like." Blunt became suddenly tongue-tied; he handed her the packet and took himself off to join Charles and the lieutenant.

"Good-bye ... Mr. Blunt," called Anne in a faraway voice; her eyes were fixed on the flat parcel in her hands. Her name was written on the face of it in James' flowing script. She quickly ducked into the Lodge garden and with a hammering heart, untied the string. Inside was a small wrapped package and a letter, which she opened first. After reading his beginning paragraph, she did not know whether to laugh or cry.

My Dearest Annie,

I know how it is to long for news from home, so I took the liberty of sending this with Blunt. He's a good man, but a trifle forgetful. I trust this reaches you in a timely manner. About my news, I hope you won't mind if I run on somewhat. It would take more time to compile a condensed account of the past two days; may I simply tell all and leave it to you to sort out the details of interest, instead?

"Will I mind if he runs on somewhat?" Anne exclaimed happily, as she counted the four pages of his letter. She stumbled blindly toward a circular bench beneath a budding tree.

"Dear James! 'The ... Cap'n,' " she murmured smilingly, as she sat down. It was odd to hear her gentle, bookish sweetheart called that by a man like Blunt, but so he was. Anne sighed and caressed the pages of his letter. And her darling, The Captain, had described her so sweetly to Blunt! Anne pressed James' letter to her heart; she nearly laughed out loud as she recalled what the bashful helmsman had said of him: 'he was smilin' all over his face ...'

Anne did much the same, as she lost herself in reading his letter.

But Anne was not the only one to receive a letter that afternoon. At Sir Walter's house in Bath, another lady was given a note, though it lay unnoticed in her bedchamber for quite some time. At length Penelope Clay discovered it; with a cry of surprise she snatched it from her pillow and broke the seal. The unexpected message was short and to the point:

My Dear Penelope,

I know you are engaged to dine with my cousins at the Willingdons tonight. Stay behind. Join me for dinner, instead.

I'll have my carriage waiting near the corner, at eight.

Yours,

William

Penelope's mouth fell open. She blinked and read the words again. "Such a dreadful, presuming man," she complained softly. "He does not ask my leave, he simply commands! Well!" Penelope raised her chin. "I do not bow to his every whim and fancy! Dinner, indeed!"

She was about to crumple the page and feed it to the fire, but then thought better of it. A cunning smile twisted her lips. Had he truly sent the roses? She would soon find out. But when the note was held alongside the other, there could be no doubt. The handwriting matched exactly. Penelope frowned at it. "Dinner, indeed," she repeated.

Penelope pursed her lips as she remembered the scene in the drawing room that afternoon. "So, he is sorry and would like to make amends?" she sniffed. "Very well, he shall soon find out how sorry he can be made to feel! Not for the world I accept such an infamous invitation!"

Again, she approached the fireplace -- and pulled back. Again, she examined the note. This time, something caught her eye and gave her pause to consider. Whereas the Secret Admirer's message had been written on a plain sheet of paper, the dinner invitation was not. The top of the page was emblazoned with the Elliot family crest. Penelope bit a fingernail as she stared at it.

What do I have to lose by accepting? she wondered, with an unexpected change of face. She would spend the evening with a very charming man, a man who knew how to converse with a lady. And this was not just any man; he was Sir Walter's heir. Penelope's heart began to race along with her thoughts. Would William Elliot be offended if she refused? Dare she risk that?

Her thoughts veered toward Sir Walter. What risk did she face with him? Penelope gave a snort of derision. He had certainly shown that their affectionate exchange in the courtyard meant nothing, hadn't he? Perhaps I would do well to deprive him of my company tonight, she sniffed. Over the months, he had come to quite rely on her. Would he miss her constant, devoted attention? After all, she reminded herself shrewdly, absence does make the heart grow fonder.

Again Penelope read William Elliot's words; this time she felt the blood rise to her cheeks. No one needed to tell her that it was improper to dine alone with him. He was a man of the world, as Mr. Clay had been, of that she was very sure. Such men were dangerous, yet so very enticing.

If I do accept, who will know? she wondered. And besides, what will it matter if anyone does find out? For if Sir Walter had his way, in a week she would be packed off to Crewkherne, probably forever! Penelope ground her teeth at the baronet's high-handedness.

And with finances the way they are, I shall probably be forced travel in an horrible mail coach! Penelope shuddered; she had now become accustomed to a finer style of living. The mail coach and all it represented could be nothing other than undignified and disgusting.

With surprising quickness, Penelope made up her mind. She pulled the bell to summon a servant, taking care to wet her handkerchief first. She sat before the mirror and squeezed droplets of water onto her flushed cheeks and forehead; by the time the girl knocked on the door, the effect was quite perfect.

"Sarah," she said, in a weak yet pleasant voice, "I hate to impose on you, my dear, but would you please tell Miss Elliot that I am feeling rather poorly? She needn't come, for I know she will be busy with her toilette just now, but would you say that it may be best if I do not attend Mrs. Willingdon's dinner tonight?"

At Kellynch Lodge, Anne gazed out the parlour window and daydreamed, as the afternoon deepened into evening. She was home. Charles had promised to take her on a stroll through the groves of the estate tomorrow, yet such a thing no longer held much appeal. With all her heart, she longed to be in Bath. Wasn't that curious?

Tenderly, she stroked the new silver necklace which hung about her neck. James had sent it with the letter; the chain was adorned with a pendant in the shape of a small sailing ship.

It isn't anything like the 'Grappler', he had written, as it was probably made up to be worn by Admiral Nelson's admirers, but perhaps it will remind you of me all the same.

Lady Russell had admired the chain and the silver ship, and had asked any number of questions about the contents of her letter. Anne had become suddenly shy, and had given only the most general of replies. Lady Russell had at last given up and had abandoned the conversation.

Anne now leaned closer to the glass and peered out. Though it was dark, she could see men standing in the road before the Lodge. They held lanterns and were talking; obviously this was the changing of the guard. Anne sat back and smiled. Even if Mr. Elliot were to pursue her to this lonely place, he would certainly have a fight on his hands!

Penelope made a brave show of it; to please Miss Elliot she had put on her most elegant evening gown and had attempted to attend the dinner. But after one look at her wan face, as she stood trembling in the entry hall, and Sir Walter was all solicitation. Of course, Mrs. Clay should stay home, he declared. What was Elizabeth thinking? The Willingdons would certainly understand; he would make her excuses to the hostess, himself. Mrs. Clay must rest; perhaps she would feel better in the morning. That is, if she were not infectious!

And so, as the baronet and his daughter left the house, Penelope climbed the stairs to her room and lay carefully on her bed. She congratulated herself for a very clever strategy; she was now properly dressed to dine with Mr. Elliot.

All too soon it was time to leave. Penelope cracked open her door and listened. The house was utterly silent; she supposed the servants were now belowstairs for the evening. Although she did not know it, she tiptoed down the hallway and stairs in much the same manner as Anne had done several nights before, dreading discovery. Upon reaching the entry hall, Penelope swiftly wrapped her cloak about her, drew back the bolt of the main door, and slipped out into the night.

There, at the far end of Camden Place, stood a carriage. Its lamps cast a glow onto the street. Penelope walked toward it as calmly as she could. In the dim light she could see the Elliot crest emblazoned on the door; its significance was not lost on her. An attendant bowed and opened it, and with meticulous care assisted her to enter.

Penelope sank back against the cushioned seat and drew the fur lap robe more closely about her. As the vehicle moved forward, her sharp eyes took in its interior. From previous outings, she knew this to be a much more elegant vehicle than anything the baronet had ever used. William Elliot was a man of taste, sophistication, and substance.

She smiled into the darkness. An adventure was before her tonight.

Penelope Clay peered out of the carriage window. Obviously, this place was on the outskirts of Bath, quite out-of-the-way. Was I wise to come? she wondered anxiously. As she waited for someone to open the carriage door, Penelope again went over her carefully-laid plans. Coward! she scolded herself. Thus far, everything had come off without a hitch. What was there to worry about? By the time Sir Walter and Elizabeth would arrive home, she would be in her bed, fast asleep.

Her impressions of the inn were fleeting, for she was swiftly escorted into the building by one of Mr. Elliot's liveried servants. She looked curiously at the entrance to the taproom as she passed by. Where on earth has he brought me? she wondered, as the servant opened a door.

However, the private salon at The Swallowtail was completely unlike the rest of the inn. Penelope drew in her breath as she entered the room. It was beautifully arranged. Rose-coloured linens adorned the table and were complimented by an exquisite floral arrangement. The light from silver candelabrum caused the flatware and glasses to sparkle. The table was set for two, promising an evening of intimate conversation. And standing before the fire was William Elliot.

Penelope swallowed down the sarcastic greeting she had prepared. Had all this been arranged especially for her? After months of being treated in such an off-hand manner, this special attention was delightful. She felt her lips curve into a coy smile.

"My dear Penelope," murmured Mr. Elliot; he came forward to lift the cloak from her shoulders with his own hands. "Words cannot express my delight. I feared that I had overstepped myself in issuing such an unconventional invitation. Thank you for coming." He bowed over her hand, kissed it, and then gestured to the table. "Shall we sit down, my dear?"

"And so, there I was, in the wee hours of the morning, ma'am," Charles recounted merrily, as he sat before a cheerful fire at the Lodge, "stranded on the streets of Bath with my father's coach and horses, looking as suspicious as could be. I was doing the hero's bit to distract the night watchman, you know. And then, what does Benwick do but walk by with Anne on his arm. Right by, as easy as you please! And such a look he gives me, Lady Russell! As if I was one of his wretched seafaring drudges in need of a dressing-down!" He paused in his narrative to snatch another sugared plum from the plate.

"Good heavens, Charles," Anne said with a smile. "That is not how it was at all!" She turned to Lady Russell. "Charles makes it sound like a romp! You may only imagine how frightened we were, ma'am."

"Not Benwick," objected Charles, between swallows of hot negus. "He wasn't frightened, not one bit. You didn't see his face, Sister-dear! I did! And he, well, er, as I said, he looked like he wanted to throttle me! Not that I blame him," he added, with a grin. "As I did make off with a whole box of his best cigars ..."

"I see. Cigars." Lady Russell eyed Charles Musgrove and sighed heavily. She did not approve of outlandish, embroidered stories, even if they were about her own Anne. "My dear Mr. Charles," said she, briskly, "may I impose upon you to add another log to the fire? It is quite chilly in this room." She shifted in her chair and added, "Good gracious, it is nearly ten o'clock."

"Ten?" Charles slewed around to see the clock for himself. His pleasant smile fled away. "Confound it! I must be off, then," he muttered, as he complied with Lady Russell's request about the log. "It's getting to be dashed difficult to keep Anne's presence here a secret, you know? I mean, if Elliot shows up, the men and I are ready. But if Mary gets wind of this ..."

"If you go straight home, I doubt she will notice anything unusual," said Lady Russell firmly.

"Humph." Charles brushed wood shavings from his hands and considered this. "I've made out that I've been hunting badgers these nights," he explained, as he rose from his knees. "Only thing is, to be convincing, I must actually shoot a few of them to show her. So far, I've not had much luck."

Lady Russell's horrified expression showed exactly what she thought of such an excuse. She was about to speak when Anne intervened by offering to walk with him to the parlour door.

"Good night, Charles," she said softly. "And, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I hope you find a badger or two to kill on the way home for Mary."

After the door was closed, Anne realised what it was that she had said, and her lips twisted into a smile.

Penelope watched dreamily as William Elliot brought out a second bottle. The deep red colour of the wine, which sparkled as it rose to fill the crystal glass, was so very pleasing in the soft candlelight. So too had been the conversation over dinner; she had not been so well entertained for a very long time. What surprised her most was Mr. Elliot's openness: he did not hesitate to voice his opinion of the baronet's shabby treatment of her. This was so unlike his usual, careful self that Penelope did not know what to think. Indeed, she could scarcely believe what he was now saying:

"... for Sir Walter not only insulted you, but me, as well," he said wrathfully, as he finished filling the second glass. "Wondering why you should have an admirer, indeed! Good lord! A man would be an idiot if he did not admire you, my dear!"

"Is that so?" Penelope raised her chin as she accepted the glass he held out to her. The wine had loosened her reserve just enough for her to say, "I had thought you admired Miss Anne, sir, above all others."

He responded with a disarming smile. "Alas, it is true," he admitted. "Anne is a dear girl. But my affection for her arose out of a desire to rescue her from a life of poverty."

"How noble!" remarked Penelope.

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" William Elliot rotated the stem of his wineglass between his fingers; his smile hardened. "But you must not think I am cast down, my dear. Fate intervened and kept me from a disastrous mistake! It just so happened that Anne bestowed her affections elsewhere at the very moment I learned some unhappy news about the baronet. Of course, once I knew the truth, I lost all interest in assisting my cousins."

Penelope's attention was caught by this remark, but she knew she dared not inquire about the particulars -- yet.

"Besides," he continued, "once Anne became engaged, what could I do?" William leaned forward; his eyes glittered as he said deliberately, "Not for anything would I wed Elizabeth!"

Penelope had to smile. "You are not a true philanthropist, then?"

"A desire to assist a woman of one's family is one thing. Self-immolation is quite another," he retorted. "Now that I know her better, I cannot imagine marriage to Elizabeth as being anything other than a continual cat fight!"

"Good gracious," Penelope gurgled. Her eyes danced to hear such talk, for it was deliciously true, though she could hardly say so. "But you must admit," she objected, "Elizabeth is very beautiful".

"Beautiful and d-mned opinionated!" he snapped. "One must agree with her upon every point -- or be annihilated!" His voice softened. "I don't see how you have borne it, my dear."

William dropped his eyes for a moment. "But then, I am forgetting," he said gently, "you must work for your living; you have no choice but to bear with the whims and tempers of a fashionable woman." He raised his eyes to meet Penelope's and asked, very causally, "By the bye, has Sir Walter been prompt in paying your salary, my dear?"

"My salary," she faltered. "Why, I ..."

"For I have heard from a reliable source that he is in serious difficulty, more so than he suspects. I suggest you approach him at the soonest opportunity."

"Oh, but, I ..." Penelope swallowed. "I couldn't, for such an action appears to be so callous and grasping, sir." The truth was, she did not wish to remind Sir Walter of her inferior status by asking, but she could hardly say so to Mr. Elliot. "The baronet and Elizabeth have been quite generous to me," she said loyally. "That is, they have given me gifts, and ..."

"Elizabeth's cast-offs, do you mean?" he interrupted, with an awful smile. "I do not call such things gifts, my dear. Do you?"

Penelope winced at the truth of this. She lowered her eyes.

"You really should ask for your salary, before it is too late." William paused to study the play of the candlelight on the silver buttons of his coat sleeve. "Sir Walter is ruined," he said calmly. "Surely you have seen the signs."

"I have seen no such thing," whispered Penelope fiercely, though she knew this was not true. She glanced up; her eyes met his. She tried to turn her gaze away, but found she could not. His eyes held the most compassionate expression; why had she never noticed this before?

"It is as I have told you from the beginning, my dear Penelope," he said softly. "Yours was an admirable attempt, but it would never have worked. Sir Walter cannot love anyone but himself. And even if you could convince him to wed you, what would you have? Only the title. Your husband would be a foolish old man. In addition, there is no longer any provision for a widow's pension in his will. As the man's heir, I am in a position to know this." He paused. "Upon his demise, you would be left penniless, as well as homeless.

The word 'homeless' could only conjure up the dreaded return to her father's house in Crewkherne. Penelope groped for her wine glass and took a bracing swallow. "You would call Sir Walter's financial situation desperate, then?"

"Absolutely and completely," replied William, with disastrous promptness. "Your father is his man of business, is he not? I suggest you apply to him for the facts."

"Nevertheless," he continued, "I do pity the baronet, somewhat. He is nearly a comic figure in Bath, now. All pretend respect, while they laugh at him behind his back. Poor old fellow." William's lips twisted into a smile as he reached for a silver serving dish. "Have a sweetmeat, my dear," he offered.

Elizabeth glanced about the room and sighed wearily. At dinner, she had been seated between two of the most odious gentlemen imaginable. And now that the ladies were gathered alone in the drawing room, she discovered that her situation was no better; there simply was no one to converse with. Very sorely did she miss Penelope Clay tonight. Nevertheless, Elizabeth knew her duty. She smiled prettily at her hostess, arranged her hands becomingly on her lap, and listened with feigned interest to the babble around her.

As these were elderly women, ailments and the doings of grown children were the topics discussed. Elizabeth stifled a yawn, and studied the arrangement of the furniture. When she looked back at her lap, she was surprised to see a gloved hand holding out a cup of tea to her. Elizabeth took the it from the footman automatically, and then noticed that every women held such a cup.

"Drink up, ladies," she heard Mrs. Willingdon announce gaily. "This is the most amusing concoction imaginable! It is tea made from the flowers of St. John's something-or-other. Wort, I think it is called. But no matter. It is wonderfully restorative! Since ingesting it daily, I feel ten years younger!"

"That would make me nineteen years old," muttered Elizabeth beneath her breath, amid the coos of surprise and delight. "No, thank you." That had been the year of her come-out in London, one of the most hideously awkward experiences of her life. Elizabeth studied the contents of her cup and struggled to disguise her revulsion. The beverage looked particularly nasty and smelled even worse!

However, the subject of tea brought her thoughts to the Wedding Tea she was to host for Anne. Resentfully, she eyed Mrs. Willingdon's elegant silver tea service. How was she to entertain properly if the finest tableware was left behind at Kellynch? It did not matter that Anne was marrying such a lowly man; she was an Elliot and things like this must be done correctly! Elizabeth frowned into her teacup as she thought over her dilemma.

At last a thought came which made her raise an amused eyebrow. Captain Benwick had offered his services to her father, though she suspected he had servants and kitchen staff in mind. Elizabeth bit back a mischievous smile. Did not a man in love delight in doing heroic deeds? Although Benwick was far from her ideal of heroic, perhaps she could make him drive the fifty miles to Kellynch Hall to retrieve the items she needed!

Presently the gentlemen came into the room. One of the first was her father, arm-in-arm with Sir Clifton Farley. Elizabeth's smile widened. This was quite a victory for him, for Sir Clifton was known as a Presence in Bath. However, her smile slipped a bit as she observed him more closely. Had her father been drinking, or whatever was the matter? His eyes were bloodshot and watery, and although he was bravely attempting to maintain a jovial countenance, she could see that he was fatigued.

She was not the only one to notice this. With fluttering concern, Mrs. Willingdon was soon headed his way; a footman bearing a cup of her precious 'Wort' tea followed in her wake.

I am a fool, Penelope thought ruefully. That's just what I am, a fool, to be charmed by a man such as this. For Mr. Elliot not only looked deeply into her eyes now, but his hand lay over one of hers. Why must he be so attractive? she groaned, as she returned his smile.

"I am so glad you accepted my invitation, Penelope," he said seriously. "We have had a lovely evening together, have we not? It is important to me that we part as friends." He pressed her hand meaningfully before he removed his.

Penelope's eyes widened. Has he learned of my forced return to Crewkherne? she worried. How can that be? She was certain he had not spoken to either Sir Walter or Elizabeth all that afternoon!

Both fell silent. At last, he said, "You may not know that I must return to the Metropolis soon."

Penelope swallowed her surprise at this unexpected news. "You are ... leaving us, sir?"

"I am. By the end of the week, in fact. I have business there that can no longer be delayed. Did I mention that I have lately purchased a house in Town? And, of course, the Season is beginning." His eyes held a smile of wry amusement. "As you know, I shall be officially out of mourning in June. You cannot be unaware of what that means."

"I see." Penelope raised her glass in a mock salute. "So, it appears that Miss Anne will not be the only Elliot to marry this spring," she replied crisply. "We shall see you for the last time at the wedding on Sunday, then?"

"Wedding?" he frowned. "Ah, Anne's wedding! No, no. I shall be gone away by that time. We must bid one another adieu tonight." William paused. "I wish Anne well," he said, rather stiffly. "She shall make a good wife. Dull, but good. One must always admire Anne's goodness."

"Yes, of course," she agreed.

"But to be honest, Penelope, I vastly prefer a different sort of woman. A more spirited, intelligent woman; a woman who enjoys amusing conversation and entertainments -- the fashionable world of Society." William reached for his wineglass. Over the rim of it, his eyes met hers.

"Yes, I can understand how that," she answered slowly.

"After so many months in my cousins' wretched household, I am sure you do." William leaned back in his chair. "Tell me," he said pleasantly, "when do Sir Walter and Elizabeth make their pilgrimage to Town? Perhaps you and I may meet in some ballroom or other."

"They travel only so far as Richmond this year," replied Penelope, with a tinge of bitterness.

"Oh? And you do not like this arrangement?"

"The two of them have been invited to join a select house party there," she sniffed. "And so, at that time, I shall make a brief visit to my family in the country." Penelope bit her lip at the unpleasant, Elizabeth-like tone which had crept into her voice. She determined to correct it. "I suppose it will not be not so very bad for a week or two," she amended, more pleasantly. "And, it will be lovely to see my ch--"

Penelope caught herself just in time. She had been careful to avoid mentioning the existence of her two children in Polite Society; even with the Elliots she had refrained from discussing them. She looked carefully at Mr. Elliot; he knew nothing about them, of this she was certain. Perhaps it would be best if his ignorance is allowed to continue -- for the time being, she thought shrewdly.

"Er, it will be lovely to see my church," she finished artfully. "We have the loveliest church in Crewkherne. But, enough of me. Please, tell me more about your house in London."

"My house? Well. There is not much to tell," he confessed. "Bare walls and empty rooms; all needing paint and paper, carpets and furniture, an efficient staff ... and those special touches necessary to make it a home."

William shook his head regretfully. "It is the latter which presents the greatest difficulty, I find," he said quietly. "I suppose my dilemma is shared by all men who live alone. It is simply too quiet."

"Oh." Penelope did not know what else to say, so she smiled sweetly and took another sip of wine.

"Father, please. Allow me to assist you," Elizabeth said, as she climbed from the carriage. They had left the Willingdons early on account of his poor health. Sir Walter grumbled something inarticulate and resisted.

"Have a care! You'll fall!" she warned, but Sir Walter did not heed her. "Stubborn man," she muttered under her breath. She set her teeth and firmly took hold of his arm. As the pair made their way to the main door, she said, "Burton will help you up the stairs and see you into bed."

"I am not ill," Sir Walter repeated, for perhaps the twentieth time. "I am never ill, it is just that ..." But as Burton opened the door and ushered him inside, a new thought struck him.

"Mrs. Clay!" he exclaimed forcefully. He turned to face Elizabeth. "It is her doing!" He paused to shrug off his coat. "She was taken ill this very afternoon! Surely, I have caught her sickness!"

"What does Mrs. Clay have to do with anything," grumbled Elizabeth, as she removed her cloak and handed it to a servant. "Just because one person has a cold does not mean another will catch it."

"It was that treacherous night air," the baronet fretted. "I told her it was unhealthful! But she would take a walk in the courtyard! And like a fool, I allowed her to persuade me to accompany her!"

"Father, what are you talking about," Elizabeth said wearily. "Sleep is what you need now. I'm sure you will feel just fine in the morning." She bid him good night and watched as he was practically carried up the stairs by two footmen. After a time, she followed.

Slowly she mounted the staircase and made her way to her bedchamber. Her silken shirts rustled pleasantly as she walked, but tonight even this soft sound was irksome, for she had the beginnings of a head-ache. It had been an exhausting, wearisome evening. Elizabeth sighed at the unfairness of it all. The only bright spot in the entire week would be the Assembly at the end of it.

When she reached Mrs. Clay's door, Elizabeth hesitated. Was she awake? No light showed beneath the door, so she decided Penelope must be asleep. Elizabeth gave another weary sigh and continued on her way.

"No, no, not so near to the house," Penelope insisted. "Leave me at the corner, sir. Please."

Mr. Elliot pursed his lips. "Very well, but I do not like it," he replied crossly, and pulled the check string. "It is not as if you have committed a crime by joining me for dinner, my dear."

"Of course not," she assured him, as the carriage came to a stop. "But what would Sir Walter say? For I spurned the Willingdon's invitation in order to accept yours. He would not understand."

"You're right," he agreed. "I imagine he would be extremely irate."

All too soon it was time to say good-bye. Penelope stood on the dark street with her hands clasped in his. She struggled for the proper words.

"Farewell, Mr. Elliot," she whispered, at last.

"Mister?" She could just see the flash of his smile. "Such formality!"

"Farewell, William, then, if you prefer." Penelope could feel the colour rise to her cheeks. "Please, do visit us when you are next in Bath," she murmured.

His brows rose. "You shall remain with my cousins, then? In spite of everything?"

Penelope lifted her chin and thrust the uncertain future aside. "Of course, sir," she said firmly.

"Faithful, long-suffering creature! Your loyalty is touching, my dear. Forgive me for misjudging you." He leaned forward and gently kissed her cheek. "Good-bye, Penelope."

"Good-bye, sir." She gave his hands a parting squeeze and quickly turned away. This farewell had cost her more than she expected; she did not wish him to see her tears. She walked toward Sir Walter's house with a brisk, determined stride. However, as she drew nearer, her steps slowed. She blinked and studied the house more carefully. Every window was dark.

Sudden panic rose in her breast; her breath began to come in tiny gasps. It is late, very late! Surely Sir Walter is due to arrive at any moment -- isn't he? Then, why aren't the lamps lit? Penelope bit her lip and forced herself to remain calm as she stepped up to the door. She reached for the knob and turned it. Nothing happened. The door was locked.

With eager eyes, Mr. Elliot watched as his fair dinner guest approached the door. This was the moment for which he had waited all evening, for she was about to discover the fatal flaw in her plan. Escape without detection was simple; it was the return which posed the most daunting challenge.

He observed her with a curious, detached pity. She was now clearly in distress; even at this distance he could see it in her face. William closed the carriage window and sat back against the squabs, thinking. It was really too bad, for they had enjoyed a delightful dinner together. She is quite an engaging companion, really, he mused. And so delicious to look upon in that gown!

His original plan had been to leave Penelope standing on the street, an object of disgrace. He knew that eventually she would be forced to seek entry at the service door, and her precious secrecy would be destroyed. The gossip would compel Sir Walter to send her from his house. Thus, Penelope Clay's threat to his inheritance would be ended.

But William now began to have second thoughts. A sly smile crept over his face as a new, more provocative course of action formed in his mind. Why had he never thought of this before? Quickly, he lowered the window and instructed the driver to pull forward.

Mr. Elliot did not wait for the carriage to come to a stop before he opened the door. He moved swiftly to her side and laid his hand on her shoulder. Through the fabric of her cloak he could feel the tremours of her distress.

"Penelope!" he whispered urgently. "My dearest, whatever is the matter?" She opened her mouth to reply, but he stopped her. "No, no, do not speak, dear one. Not here. In my carriage." His eyes glittered as he held out a hand to her.

"Come," he whispered tenderly.

*infra dig., that is, beneath one's dignity (short for Latin infra dignitatem)

Chapter 11, Part One

'Love beareth all things.' Anne took a deep breath as she silently recited the text. There was certainly a great deal to bear with these days. Once again, her godmother was bringing up the subject of her wedding dress. It was extremely tiresome. Anne's lips twitched at the irony of it all: the words which had supported her during the agonies of Frederick's wedding must now help her to endure her own! Anne quickly hid her smile; one must take care to preserve a grave countenance whenever her ladyship was in high dudgeon, as she was now.

"Well! You must face the facts as they are, Anne," Lady Russell was now saying. "You simply cannot wear that Blue Monstrosity of Mary's! Even if it is perfect for you, which I am very sure it is not, it will never do!"

Anne lowered her gaze and wished, for perhaps the hundredth time, that her godmother would keep her opinions to herself.

Lady Russell resumed her agitated pacing about the parlour. "Even under the best of circumstances, it is impossible! Elise can never complete the alterations in your absence," she fretted. "No, that gown is altogether unacceptable. What was your sister thinking?" Lady Russell halted mid-stride, and nearly glared at Anne. "To think that I would live see the day when Lady Elliot's daughter would be reduced to taking charity-gifts from the Musgroves!"

This, of course, was the real issue; and as it was unanswerable, Anne wisely held her tongue.

"But whatever shall we do?" Lady Russell gave a sigh of vexation as she turned to the window.

"Our options are nonexistent, unfortunately," Anne replied carefully. "We must resign ourselves to accepting the circumstances as they are. I must wear Mary's dress or one I own already. For I cannot risk an outing to Crewkherne or even Taunton to purchase something more appropriate."

"Crewkherne? Humph! I should say not!" Lady Russell remarked wrathfully. "I had rather have you wear that Obnoxious Rag of your sister's than to be married in a Made-Up Gown!"

"Then there is nothing to be done," Anne said patiently. "I am to be married on Sunday, Amanda. That is the principal thing."

Lady Russell composed herself with visible effort. "But my dear," she countered, more gently, as she took a seat beside Anne, "surely you have dreamed about your wedding day. Every young woman has! And I am certain that in your dreams you did not wear that Violent Shade of blue!"

A thought rose, unbidden, and before she could check herself, Anne spoke it: "After -- after Mr. Elliot, I ceased to dream about any wedding at all."

Lady Russell was instantly stricken. "My dear, I did not mean ..." She moistened her lips, then said bracingly, "I see no reason to bring that man's name into our conversation! Indeed, I have purposed never to see or speak with him again!"

"If James has his way, neither shall I," Anne replied softly. "Thank God."

"There, now," Lady Russell chirped, with a pat to her goddaughter's knee. "That is a better thought! You have all the more reason to look your best on your wedding day, my dear! For your heroic groom!"

"James is heroic, isn't he?" Anne agreed, and her lips curved into a smile.

"A hero deserves a beautiful bride, and vice-versa. 'None but the brave deserves the fair,' as you recall," Lady Russell quoted.

Anne laid her head to one side. "I suppose," she said thoughtfully. "But James is not precisely like other men. He thought me beautiful on the most horrid day of my life! In my oldest pink silk, with my hair in a shambles, and ..."

"But you have waited so long to be married, Anne!" Lady Russell interrupted. "I do not want the day to be a disappointment to you!"

Anne dropped her gaze and smoothed the fabric of her gown. "I do not mind," she murmured smilingly. "I am to have a perfectly wonderful husband."

Lady Russell went on to say some other things, but Anne answered very much at random. Her thoughts were far away: she was now in the hedgerow at Uppercross, now in his library, now seated on the edge of her bed -- everywhere with James, cradled in his warm, comfortable embrace.

"Anne, you are not attending!" Lady Russell frowned. "I said, it is only fitting that your wedding be everything you have dreamed of!"

Anne was obliged to look up. "But I never dreamed of marrying James," she stammered. "I mean, I did, but not in the common way, not as a day-dream. It, it all happened so unexpectedly! But with Freder -"

Anne bit her lip; she bent to examine her pearl ring as she searched for a way to retrieve her disastrous slip. She could think of nothing, so she said, "I suppose I've never envisioned myself on my wedding day at all, Amanda. In my mind, I have seen only the bridegrooms. Er, I mean ..."

"Bridegrooms?" Lady Russell raised an eyebrow. "It is fortunate that Captain Benwick wears a uniform, then," she said, awfully.

Anne could not hold back her smile. "Yes, isn't it?" she gurgled. "Although, I think James looks best in that old black sweater, with his hair all rumpled, and coal on his cheeks ..."

Lady Russell was not amused by these romantic recollections; she doggedly brought Anne back to answer her question. "Even as a little girl, you never dreamed of being a bride?"

Anne sighed at her godmother's determination. "I played at it, once or twice," she admitted, "but that does not signify now." She paused. "Mother had the most wondrous dress," she said slowly. "It was white ..."

Lady Russell beamed. "Ah! This is much better! White, not blue!"

"It was covered over with lace," Anne continued, as memories began to overtake her. "The gown was from her Season, her first one," she explained with a faraway smile. "It was kept with some others in a trunk in her dressing room, as I recall. She allowed me to put it on, although it was much too large. She put flowers in my hair; she sang and we danced together." Anne hesitated. "But that was long ago, before she became so ill ..."

Lady Russell frowned in an effort of memory. "A white dress with a lace overskirt," she murmured. "Goodness, Anne, could your mother have let you play with the gown from her Presentation?"

"I suppose so. Isn't it odd that I should remember it now? I would very much like to see those old gowns again, but that cannot be. Father had Mother's things cleared away so soon after her passing. It is a pity."

"Men are altogether too practical, sometimes" Lady Russell grumbled.

Anne smiled fondly at her godmother. "It does not matter, Amanda, truly," she said gently. "James won't mind what I wear. The day will be special for itself, without the fuss of pomp and finery." Anne fingered the tiny silver ship which hung about her neck. A longing to see James' letter, and to read his tender words, now rose within her. At length there was a lapse in the conversation, and she excused herself.

Lady Russell remained where she was. She stared hard at Anne's empty chair. All at once, she stood and crossed the room to sit at her desk. She pulled forward a sheet of paper, and after a moment's deliberation, began to write. Presently she rang for her butler.

"Longwell," she said crisply, as the man entered the room, "here is a note which must be taken to the Hall without delay -- this very moment, in fact! You must take care to give it to Watkins. No," she amended, pulling the letter back with a frown, "not Watkins. She's sure to be difficult, as always. You must deliver it to Harkness, instead." Lady Russell tapped the corner of the letter on the desk as she thought. "Yes, it must be Harkness," she decided. "Anne has always been a favourite of his, has she not?"

"Very good, my lady," Longwell said, as he took the note and made his bow.

"I may be an old crosspatch," Lady Russell muttered to herself, "but I do know a thing or two about Anne."

"Mary. What are you doing in that curricle?" Beatrice called. She had sent the girl to wait by the cart.

"Doctor Abernathy said that I might ride with him to the Rectory."

He did? The man takes too much upon himself. Just as Mrs. Junkins opened her mouth to order the girl down, Abernathy passed by. "Yes, I will take her along with her bag." He turned. "If that meets with your approval."

"It does not," Beatrice said, "But this entire scheme is outside my approving." She took a step closer to Abernathy, glanced around and lowered her voice. "She is entirely too young to play baby nurse."

Abernathy stepped closer, but his voice remained firm. "If I were of the opinion that she would do nothing more than play, Mrs. Junkins, I would not have recommended that she go to the Wentworths."

She glanced at Mary. "She is a little girl who forgets to draw water unless reminded."

"Mrs. Junkins, Mary is quite capable. But more than this, she has the gift of medicine in her hands. I can see it." He leant closer and finally lowered his voice, "If she were a boy, I would beg you to give her to my uncle for an apprentice."

His intense look was unsettling. Passion in a man could be dangerous, and by his firm countenance, Abernathy was a very passionate man.

"I realise she is young, but she is nearly thirteen. Not too young to help care for the Wentworth babies. Furthermore, you have my word that this is only is only temporary. I will do everything in my power to find another nurse as soon as possible. I am going to Shrewsbury this afternoon. Who knows, I may find a woman immediately."

The sound of approaching steps brought them both back to the present. "You left without your shawl, dear." Joshua had joined them. The house was closed and he was ready to take Mary to the Rectory. He placed the shawl, laying his hands gently on her shoulders. "Come. I do not wish to miss bidding farewell to the Captain and his wife," his gravelly voice whispered.

She bowed to his request and went to the cart.

"Do not think her unkind. She will miss the girl."

Abernathy's face loosened. "Ah. I see." He laughed a little. "I was worried for a moment." He looked over to her arranging the reins. "She can be a bit ... " He was at a loss.

"Severe. I know. She has her reasons." He began to shamble his way to the cart then suddenly stopped. "Are you free later, Doctor?"

"Ah, not today, Mr. Junkins. I am to Shrewsbury. If I am lucky, I shall be back tomorrow or the next day. Why do you ask?"

Joshua rubbed the back of his neck and glanced towards the ladies. Both were engaged. "I need to ... ahem ... I find I am in need of your advice. About a ... personal matter."

"Certainly, sir. I could come and consult as soon as I return."

Again he glanced about. "Perhaps it would be best forgotten." He turned to the cart.

"Perhaps we could take a ride in the country," suggested Abernathy. " -- and have refreshments at my home -- I could show you my office -- and my surgery?"

Joshua stopped. He smiled. "Yes, Doctor, that would be just to my liking. Thank you." He turned back towards the cart and called, "We must be off, Doctor." He waved to Mary and called, "You behave, young one."

Mary giggled. "Yes, sir," she said as she nodded.

Abernathy followed the man, intending to help him into the cart. Before he could offer, Mrs. Junkins was braced and ready. With her hand and the aid of her shoulder, Junkins was up in his seat. The doctor watched and knew that no matter his notions, they were a comfortable pair. As she steered the cart down the drive, Abernathy mounted his curricle and said, "Are you ready for any adventure that may await, Mary?" With a snap of the reins, the horse went immediately to a trot.

"Adventure, sir?" She watched the road, but glanced now and again his way.

He smiled. "Yes. Adventure is anywhere and everywhere. You must always be prepared to engage it."

She looked at him carefully. "Yes, Doctor," she said carefully, "I think I am."

What am I thinking? This is lunacy! Lady Russell thought, as she walked briskly along toward the Hall. The empty valise she carried bumped against her legs. A gown three decades old, faded and threadbare, and likely eaten by moths! she fretted. It will be horrible beyond imagination! It was ridiculous to even consider such an outlandish idea, but what else could she do?

Lady Russell took a deep breath. It would not be right to pass judgment until Elizabeth's trunk was opened and the dress was seen. Then it would be decided what could and could not be done. Thus admonished, her ladyship set her teeth and marched resolutely on.

Presently, the mansion was gained; unfortunately, Lady Russell's frame of mind did not improve with her arrival. She stood in the spacious, marble-panelled entry hall and looked about her with pursed lips. It grieved her to think of her dear neighbour, who was now driven from his ancestral home.

As the butler took her outer garments and the valise, a soft clicking caught Lady Russell's attention. She turned, and gasped.

"Good gracious, Harkness! What is that doing here?" she exclaimed. "Sir Walter would never approve!"

Harkness wrinkled his nose at the sleek greyhound, which moved to stand meekly at his side. "It belongs to the Admiral's nephew, my lady," he said stiffly. "The Young Person brought several of the Creatures when he came, I am sorry to say."

"Several? Have they the run of the house? Where is Admiral Croft?" she demanded.

"Admiral and Mrs. Croft are travelling, my lady. We do not expect them until next week," Harkenss replied, and reached for the bell pull. A footman appeared almost immediately.

"Mr. Reginald Croft is in the Morning Room, Norman," Harkness said severely. "Return the Animal to his custody, at once." He watched with satisfaction as the man led the dog away, before turning to Lady Russell.

"I beg your pardon for the interruption, my lady," he said politely. "And now, if you would be pleased to follow me?"

While Harkness led Lady Russell to a little-used sitting room at Kellynch Hall, another butler entered the baronet's drawing room in Bath. "Mr. William Elliot," Burton announced gravely.

Elizabeth looked up from her work at the desk. "Good morning, sir," she murmured, closing the ledger before her.

"Good morning," Mr. Elliot returned. His brows rose as he observed the ledger. "What's all this?" he said pleasantly. "Have you taken up a course of study, Miss Elizabeth? How original."

Elizabeth pursed her lips before she answered. "Because of Anne's jaunt into the country, I find myself obliged to arrange her Wedding Tea, that is all." She hesitated, then said: "Would you care to sit down, Cousin?"

Mr. Elliot remained where he was. "You are alone this forenoon?" he inquired pointedly.

"I am, after a manner of speaking. Father and Mrs. Clay have each caught the cold and are confined to their bedchambers."

"Both are indisposed?" His eyes sparkled outrageously. "How inconvenient for you."

Elizabeth laid down her pen. "I am being interrogated, I see. What else you would like to know, Mr. Elliot?"

"No, no, nothing, upon my honour," he said cheerfully. "But, I do not stay; I have come to bid you farewell, Cousin. I find I must leave Bath. Please, give my regards to your father."

"Indeed?" Elizabeth's face showed her surprise. "Shall you not attend my sister's wedding?"

"My business is too pressing to allow me to remain even one day longer."

Elizabeth studied him for a long moment, before she gracefully extended her hand. "Good-bye, then, Cousin. I trust that you will not be away too long."

Mr. Elliot smiled as he bowed over her hand. "Who's to say?" he murmured agreeably. 'Present mirth has present laughter; what's to come is still unsure.' Perhaps, it is better said, adieu."

She now suspected that he was laughing at her. "Very well then, if you prefer, adieu," she said sharply.

Elizabeth watched him go with narrowed eyes. Mr. Elliot was the most provoking of men! And what had he meant by that quotation? Knowing him, it was probably some sort of private joke.

With a weary sigh, Elizabeth reopened the ledger and resumed writing.

"You have Elise to thank, not me," Lady Russell said, as she struggled to fasten the buttons which ran up the back of Lady Elliot's gown. "The trunk was discovered in the closet of her former bedchamber, of all things. Why she should want it is beyond me!"

"Dear Elise. She was truly devoted to Mother." Anne strained to look over her shoulder. "Have you finished yet, ma'am?"

"Very nearly," grumbled Lady Russell. "Gracious, these buttons are tiny. And there are so many of them! There!"

Gingerly, Anne gathered the heavy satin underskirt in her hands and left the dressing room. Lady Russell did not keep her full-length mirror there, as she thought the light was too poor. Anne slowly moved across the room and came to a stop before the looking glass. Carefully, she smoothed the lacy overskirt. For a long moment, there was silence.

"Oh, Anne." Lady Russell's voice was choked with emotion; she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"It is a beautiful gown, is it not?" Anne whispered.

"It is not the gown, dearest girl. You are the exact image of your mother! Did you know that?"

"Then I shall wear this, in remembrance of her," Anne decided.

"Heavens, no!" Lady Russell objected. "I don't know what possessed me to consider such a scheme!"

"You were desperate; you said so yourself. And this is much nicer than Mary's gown."

Lady Russell wrung her hands. "It is not at all the thing, Anne!" she wailed. "Just look at the waist! Gracious, it is all wrong! And those panniers make it hideously antiquated!"

"I shall not wear the boned underskirts," Anne pointed out. "And with a few simple alterations, it will look very well. This extra fabric along each side, for instance. I could take in those seams myself." She dimpled. "I did the reverse, for Mary's gown."

"I am afraid you would be wasting your time, my dear. It is hopeless. Look at the sleeves. Very out of fashion."

Anne studied her reflection. "The lace has faded to a lovely ivory colour," she offered.

"It was ivory to begin with," sighed Lady Russell. "Your mother looked washed-out in white, as do you. Your grandmother Stevenson wisely decided to use this colour, instead."

"And the moths have not been at it, nor is it stained," Anne persisted, spreading the folds of the skirt. "I do not mind the low waist. And if it were known to be my mother's dress, and that I wore it for sentimental reasons --"

"Foolish sentimentalism," Lady Russell murmured, as she examined the fabric more closely. "You would look as if you had come from a costume ball, my dear! And against the blue and white of Captain Benwick's uniform, why, that ivory would be dreadful!"

Anne regarded her godmother for a long moment. She raised her chin defiantly. "Ours will be a very small wedding, Amanda. James will not mind what I wear. I think this dress is perfect."

"But, Anne --"

Lady Russell sighed to see the look of mulish determination on Anne's face. She lowered her gaze. Very well did she remember: her friend Elizabeth had been every bit as romantic -- and just as determined to have her way. "Indeed, Anne-dear," she muttered, "you are very like your mother in that gown."

The Captain entered the room, looking first to the two trunks and few bags to go down. The carriage had just arrived and after a short talk with it's driver, was ready to be loaded. He glanced across to the window. Louisa stood in dark relief against the bright morning sun flooding through the curtains.

"Mary has just arrived," she said.

The Captain came up behind her. She leant into him and he put his arms about her.

"I dread saying good bye. So have put it off."

"You cannot do that forever, you know. Unless you intend to creep away like a sneak-thief"

"No." She turned. "I know I must do the proper thing. That does not make it any easier." She slid her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against him. "I was just thinking about how so much of our life together, thus far, has been lived in this little room."

"True enough." He kissed her forehead. "Are you disappointed? Despise not the humble beginning, my brother always says."

"No, never disappointed." she shook her head. "Last night, I could not sleep. And I was struck how silly people are about love."

He drew back. "How so?"

"To read what the learned say of it, it is like an event." She looked into his eyes. "A great battle won or lost, a celebration of great import. All sorts of giddiness and nervous laughter. But I think I have to disagree."

He smiled. "You must disagree with all the learned amongst us. Why, pray?" He rested his chin against her cheek and waited.

"It is not that simple. I see that clearly now. I have come to think that it is in common little rooms, like this one, where souls and hearts are welded together."

He smiled down at her. "I am astonished. I had not realised that Sadie Musgrove had raised such a philosopher."

"Please. Don't tease me."

"I am not teasing." He bussed her cheek and settled a serious expression on his face. "I am glad to see my young wife is given over to serious thought. A well-lived life takes serious thought." It was not until recently that he began to understand this truth.

Louisa rested herself against him and sighed.

"You must go and say your good byes. I hear stirring in the hallway, you may catch them all at once." He kissed her forehead.

She smiled up at him, nodded and without a word moved to the door.

He touched her hand. "I will fetch you when we must leave." She nodded again and continued out.

In the hall she met Mrs. Junkins and Mary bringing the babies to Mrs. Wentworth.

"Mrs. Wentworth. I understand you are to leave us this very day." Mrs. Junkins opened the door.

"Yes, I must leave for a time, but I shall return." She did not look at Mrs. Junkins, but gazed at the baby she held. "They are so sweet."

"Yes," said Mary in a hushed tone. Leaning over the Rector's wife, she continued, "And I am very glad you have trusted them to me, Mrs. Wentworth."

Catherine took the bundle and brought it close to her face. She took a deep breath. "I know you will be a great help to us, Mary. Sister," she said, holding out her free hand.

Louisa kissed her cheek and drew as close as she could. The baby crowed and they parted.

"I feel so badly. You need my help with the babies and here I am, leaving you quite helpless."

"Oh, no, not helpless. Look about. We will manage very well indeed. I have Mary for right now and Abernathy is looking for a proper nurse." She squeezed Louisa's hand. "As for your leaving, it is for the best of reasons. He wishes you to go with him. I would not allow you to stay under those circumstances."

"Come Mary, we shall leave them," Beatrice said.

Louisa took Rose who had just awakened. She crowed in response to her brother.

"I have to go," she said, still awkward holding the wiggling bundles. "I would stay if I were able, but I am a witness. Otherwise -- "

"Louisa, hear me, he wants you to go." Catherine unwrapped the boy and lay him next to her. As she reached for Rose, she said, "Mark my words, his countenance says that no matter the reason, he is glad that you will be with him."

"Do you really think so?"

She laughed. "Yes, I do."

"I hope he does. I am very glad to go."

"And how exciting, Madeira. Think of it."

"Frederick has told me a little of what it is like. It sounds lovely."

"So many would not go there for their health were it not also lovely. Look twice at everything."

"Twice?"

"Yes. Once for yourself, and once for me."

"I will. In fact, I shall draw everything I see and when I return you will have a picture book of the whole voyage."

Catherine smiled. "I look forward to that."

Both were startled by a knock and Frederick reminding her of the time.

Louisa brushed back the tears and again hugged Catherine. "I love you, Sister. And I shall be back as soon as I am able."

"We will be waiting, Dear. And looking forward to your return."

Louisa stood, holding onto Catherine's hand. She leant for one last kiss. As she passed her husband, Catherine asked, "Captain, a word?"

He took the chair vacated by Louisa. "Yes, Mrs. Wentworth?"

Catherine took his hand. "I am glad to see that you have worked everything to your advantage."

He smiled. "You make me sound a dab hand at palace intrigue."

"Oh, another time, another place, perhaps so. What I mean is that I am glad you are learning that all things work together for good. I think the two of you will benefit from one another's company."

"I shall not act the dunce for you, Catherine. She is not vital to anything, but I do wish her with me."

She patted his hand. "There. Confession is good for the soul. I knew it all along." She smiled again. "Take care of her, and send her back to us as soon as you are able. I miss her all ready."

He touched her hand to his lips. "I promise. And take care of him for me." He stood. "And them." He watched his niece and nephew; limbs flapping and whipping the air.

"Always, Captain."

A smile, and a wave, and the parting was over.

The parting from his brother was not so straight forward.

"... and she should, most certainly, be back to you by Christmas."

"And where will you be by Christmas?" Edward asked.

"I hope to be beating round Cape Horn. It will be summer then." He laughed. "Well, as much of summer as it can be called down there."

"You promise that you'll not take her with you? It is far too dangerous."

"After what she has been through? The Horn is nothing in comparison." Frederick smiled. "That said, I have no intentions of taking her. There is more than enough evil in my taking her to Madeira. I would not wish to fight the Westerlies and worry about her safety." He shifted from one foot to the other as he watched his brother potter at his desk. "Saying farewell is becoming more difficult."

Edward looked up. "Isn't it. My age works against me, and my nature. Each time we part, who knows -- "

Both men heard voices in the hall. Abernathy and Junkins had kindly slipped away when he had entered, allowing them some privacy.

The Rector glanced and sighed. "That will be Louisa. Graham was giving her a basket for the trip." He rose. Turning to his brother, he said, "I am very proud of you. Know that. And come home in one piece." He allowed no answer, but walked quickly out to the hallway.

Junkins held a large covered basket. Abernathy was speaking quietly to Louisa as she dabbed at her eyes. Frederick was touched, but chose not to allow the sentiment to overtake everyone. He pulled down her pelisse from the rack and held it for her. "My dear." She slid her arms in. Edward helped him with his greatcoat.

As they walked to the carriage, Junkins said to the Captain, "I wish you the best, sir. Return to Shropshire as soon as you may."

Junkins struggled with a thin coat of mud on the path. Frederick took the basket. "Thank you, Joshua, I will. And I shall bring you a memento of the Horn."

"That," he said quietly, "will not be nec -- unwelcome. I look forward to hearing your tales."

They came to the carriage and Frederick passed the basket to Louisa. He looked at his friend. Joshua nodded. The Captain offered his hand and Joshua took it as best he could.

"The pleasure has been all mine." The hand trembled.

"The pleasure, sir, has been mutual." He smiled and stepped back.

Abernathy saw Louisa seated and brought enough commotion to the scene to relieve the heaviness.

When everything was seen to and there was nothing left to do or say, Frederick shook his brother's hand.

"It is indeed harder each time," said Frederick. "My age and my nature work against me. Take care, Brother. Pray for our safe returns."

"Everyday, Frederick." He leant in the carriage. "Good bye, Sister." Between dabs of the handkerchief, she nodded and waved.

As he watched the carriage take the corner heading towards Glencoe, he wondered, according to his nature, if this was the last time he would see his brother. There was the familiar ache, but as he turned in to the house, he thought about his other children and there was a joy which began to surround the pain.

Quotations are from: Alexander's Feast, or, The Power of Music by John Dryden and Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare.

Continued in Next Section

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