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Chapter X

Posted on Thursday, 7 June 2001

The last week or so of April was a gloomy one, and the day designated for the annual football match dawned ominously. Fortunately, it did not rain, though grey skies and a damp chill kept away some of the usual onlookers and seriously diminished the spirits of the brave souls who huddled around the field designated for the match, a disused meadow in Lower Barstow. The new grass had been closely cut, and was sure to be trampled into the mud not long after the game began.

Charles Musgrove regarded the field with his hands on his hips and an expression of intense satisfaction. Walter watched his brother with hidden amusement; Charles fulfilled the role of the young squire admirably the rest of the year, but on this day he was again a schoolboy, finding no greater pleasure in life than to play in the mud.

They were both wearing their oldest clothes and boots, though in Charles' case his oldest clothes were barely distinguishable from his newest, being equally shapeless and nondescript. The brothers had both cast off coats and waistcoats and wore their shirts unbuttoned at the neck, with the only nod toward respectability being a handkerchief knotted round Walter's throat. A pink ribbon was tied around Charles' upper arm, the ends fluttering improbably in the light wind. The ribbon was a tradition started by Charles himself a few years before, shortly after his marriage. He had teasingly stolen a ribbon from Anne's hat and tied it around his arm, claiming it as his lady's favour in the manner of knights at a jousting tournament. The other young men had quickly followed suit, begging similar favours from the young ladies who gathered for the game. These young ladies were not much interested in football but were clearly interested in the spectacle of young, healthy men engaged in athletic competition, and they bestowed these favours willingly. Some of the more forward gentlemen even collected more than one, their sleeves resembling a Maypole before they were finished.

Walter's arm remained bare of any such adornment; he had never solicited a ribbon from any young lady, and indeed had politely turned down the bold offers of some. This year, he toyed with the idea of requesting a ribbon from Gwendolyn Clay, but she had not yet turned up. This was something of a relief, as Walter had not yet decided how to proceed with his renewed attraction to Gwendolyn. He was unable to picture her happily sharing his quiet life at the parsonage; yet he did not like to think of giving up his profession.

A gig approached; though the top was up, Walter recognized it as Eileen Gilbride's, with Michael's horse trotting behind. He was a little surprised to see them, as Eileen had indicated that she would keep Michael at home if the weather did not moderate.

Michael called a greeting as he reined in his mount. Walter held the horse's bridle as Michael swung his leg casually over the front of the saddle and slid to the ground. The pale, sickly boy who had arrived in Somerset a few months earlier had virtually disappeared; outdoor exercise had filled out his gaunt frame and the weak spring sun had given his face some colour. He was turning into a rather well-looking young man, and a few of the younger ladies present watched Michael approvingly as he approached his tutor.

"Go on to the field," Walter told him with a grin. "Charles is waiting for you." Michael ran off, and Walter smiled up at Miss Gilbride. "It was good of you to bring him. Are you going to stay to watch?"

"Of course! Anne asked me to bring her all the details. Besides, if it rains very hard or grows too cold, I am going to take Michael home."

Walter glanced up at the sky, where the clouds seemed to be diminishing. "I do not think it will rain."

"Neither do I," Miss Gilbride sighed. "I have hardened myself to the idea of Michael rending and ruining his clothes with dirt. Some things in life are simply inevitable, and it can do no good to rail at the fates."

"I also feared you might be too busy with preparations for the ball to attend." At a dinner the previous week, Sir Bernard had heard some young people complaining about the dearth of engagements, and had immediately proposed a ball at Kellynch. He had been told that the neighbourhood was thin that time of year, but had persisted in his plans, and it was to be held the night after the match.

"No, my father has issued the invitations and given instructions to the servants," she said with a smile. "I really have nothing to do until the guests arrive."

Walter was amused by her lack of concern, knowing his mother's frantic preparations for a much smaller gathering. "That sounds like a most pleasant way to host a ball." He noticed that she had a ribbon tied around her wrist. "Your brother would not wear your favour?" he asked with a grin.

Eileen raised her eyebrows. "When you were fifteen, would you have worn your sister's favour?"

"An excellent point. Has no one asked for your favour, then?" Many of the young men had long-standing appointments with the ladies of their choice, and were already beribboned before they arrived at the field.

"No, and I'm not sure why I even brought it. Anne told me that I must bring the ribbon because it was an old and hallowed tradition."

Walter laughed. "Yes, it is an old and hallowed tradition of approximately three years' standing, and your respectful adherence is noted approvingly."

"Now that I am here, however," said Eileen, "I wonder if it would have been better to fly in the face of tradition. It must be a sore point to the ladies who stand on the sidelines pathetically clutching their bit of ribbon, and I would not be the object of scorn on that account."

Walter realized suddenly that he did not want that, either. "I would not have such a good friend as you the object of scorn, Miss Gilbride, so unless you have another victim in your sights, I would be proud to wear your favour."

"You would?" Her face showed her surprise. "I thought--well, are you certain?"

"Of course. Why not?" He grinned up at her. "You would not send me onto the field of battle alone and friendless?"

She offered no more opposition, but untied the ribbon from her wrist--azure blue, the color of her eyes and of her driving-habit--and retied it around his extended arm.

"The lowly soldier thanks you, madam." Walter made an elegant leg that belied the general shabbiness of his raiment.

Eileen clapped her fist to her shoulder in the manner of the Roman gladiators. "Those who are about to die, we salute you!"

Walter laughed and took his leave of her. The Uppercross men had gathered on one end of the field and he made his way toward them, picking his way through the crowd of onlookers, which was rapidly growing as the sun became brighter.

Someone called his name, and he looked up to see Gwendolyn Clay smiling at him from under her parasol. A smile of real delight crossed his face as he joined her. "So you decided to come out! I am glad to see you, love." He took her gloved hand and held it for a moment while he grinned at her rather stupidly.

"I have heard so much about this spectacle that I could not miss it."

Walter wondered idly where Gwendolyn had come by her information; from Eileen Gilbride, perhaps? Were they becoming friendly? His instincts told him that was unlikely.

"I was also told," she added, bringing forth a length of red ribbon from her reticule, "that I was to bring a favour, and that some kind gentleman would beg it from me. You are the first to approach me, but I see you have already been honoured," indicating the blue ribbon.

"There is no reason I cannot solicit the favour of two ladies," he said, adding hastily, "that is, if you wish to bestow your token upon me."

"I do," she said softly, looking him full in the eyes.

"Well, then," he said, just as softly, holding out his arm. "If you will be so kind, madam."

Gwendolyn tied the brightly-coloured ribbon just above Eileen's blue one. "There! I will be able to see it easily, I am sure." Her hand lingered warmly on his forearm.

"Not once it is covered with dirt," Walter said lightly.

"In that case, you need not return the ribbon," she said archly. "You may return the favour, however, by soliciting a dance tomorrow night at Kellynch. I fear I shall be relegated to the spinster aunts and widowed ladies if you do not take pity upon me."

"Somehow, I doubt that," he replied with a smile just as Charles impatiently called him. Walter bowed hastily and left her, only glancing over his shoulder once or twice as he made his way to the Uppercross end of the field.

The Uppercross men upheld the honour of their village with a rousing win, punctuated by Michael Gilbride scoring the final goal. Walter found him with Eileen after the game, his blue eyes shining through the mud that streaked his face, recounting the goal for his sister in excruciating detail. Walter's eyes caught Eileen's, and they exchanged a grin.

"Go on home, Michael," said Walter. "A gentleman does not bore ladies with his exploits on the playing field, the hunting field, or anywhere else for that matter. Remember that, if you remember nothing else I teach you."

Michael swung himself onto his horse and said, "I have other things I would ask you about ladies." He glanced over his shoulder at a group of giggling girls who were watching him and whispering amongst themselves.

"Later," said Walter warningly. He turned to Eileen. "I have come to return your favour, madam."

She eyed the now-muddy bit of ribbon with some distaste. "You may keep it."

"I thought you might say that." He bowed. "Until tomorrow night."

"Good-bye!" She drove away, laughing.

Back at the parsonage, he was greeted by a very disapproving Mrs. Brumby. "I know not why you gentlemen must cover yourselves in dirt for a game," she said, shaking her head as the manservant came past with two buckets of hot water for Walter's bath.

Walter found himself repeating Eileen Gilbride's words. "Football, my dear Mrs. Brumby, is the replacement for warfare in these peaceful times. Gentlemen must skirmish, and you will allow that this method is much less dangerous, and certainly much less dirty, than real war."

"I saw infantrymen come back from the Peninsula looking cleaner than you lot," the housekeeper grumbled, trundling down the passage.

Walter grinned and ran up the stairs to his dressing room. The bathtub was soon filled with steaming water, and he began to undress. He slid the two ribbons from his arm and held them for a moment consideringly. He took up his wash-jug, went to the tub, and scooped up some of the warm water. He poured the water into his washbasin and dipped the ribbons into it. With a little encouragement, the mud was easily removed, though both ribbons bled a bit of dye into the water, turning it an odd shade of purple. When the ribbons were clean, Walter squeezed out the excess water, tied them together, and spread them on top of the table to dry. Satisfied, he went at last to the bathtub and lowered himself into it with a grateful sigh.

The Uppercross carriage rumbled up the gravel drive to the front door of Kellynch Hall. Walter descended first, then turned to help out his mother and father.

Light poured from the windows and doors of the grand stone manor as gentlemen in sober black evening suits led their ladies, clad in brightly coloured silk, to the entrance. More revelers could be seen through the windows of the drawing room. Mrs. Musgrove looked at them suspiciously. "I hope we shall not be obliged to rub elbows with all the ragtag and bobtail of Somerset. I detest these vulgar great squeezes."

Walter exchanged a look with his father. Mrs. Musgrove had been fractious for several days; perhaps understandably, she found it disconcerting to be the guest of relative strangers at her childhood home. Walter imagined himself in the position of returning to Uppercross Hall in such a circumstance and tried to be sympathetic.

Candlelight bathed the elegant interior of the house, softening the hard lines and enveloping visitors in warmth. When Sir Bernard saw Mrs. Musgrove, he went to her immediately, took her hand, and patted it in the friendliest manner. "My dear Mrs. Musgrove, I welcome you to Kellynch."

"I thank you, sir," she replied, pleased at such marked attentions from her host. "I am delighted to be here." She looked around and sighed dramatically. "I have such fond memories of this house, my mother and my father--I am afraid I shall be overcome--Sir Bernard, if you would be so kind as to find me a seat?"

"By all means, my dear madam. Please come this way." He led her to one side of the room and established her in a chair along the wall.

Walter felt a tug on his elbow. It was Michael Gilbride, nervously correct in his new evening-suit. "Is my cravat right?" he asked in a whisper.

Walter surveyed him critically. "You look very fine tonight, sir! Have you engaged any young ladies to dance yet?" Walter and Eileen had spent the week teaching Michael various dances, and he had determined to stand up for every number.

"I am dancing the first with Miss Cecilia Hayter."

Walter smiled. "Wasting no time, are you? Well done, Michael!"

Michael grinned. "She is very easy to talk to. Did you know that she was at the match? She congratulated me on my goal, and asked me about the game, and then before I knew it I was asking her to dance, and she said yes." He looked a little dazed at the recollection.

"That is the way of it," Walter said, trying not to laugh. "Tread carefully, my friend; do not fall into the trap of allowing the ladies to flatter you into an unwise declaration."

"Michael, do not monopolize Mr. Musgrove," came a voice from behind them, which proved to belong to Eileen Gilbride. Walter stared for a moment in frank admiration. She wore a simple yet elegant silk dress in a shade of light sea-green with just enough blue in it to emphasize the colour of her eyes. Froths of fine lace cascaded from the tight-fitting sleeves and the off-the-shoulder neckline. A single strand of pearls and matching ear-drops were her only jewelry. Her hair, normally worn in a rather severe chignon, had been arranged in soft ringlets around her face with small white flowers tucked in here and there. She glowed warmly in the candlelight, as attractive as a roaring fire on a cold winter's day.

Walter swept an elegant bow. "Good evening, Miss Gilbride. Michael, I hope you have already claimed your dance, for I fear there will be few to go round."

"Dance with my sister?" cried Michael. "Must I?"

"Did it ever occur to you," said a very amused Eileen, "that I would not much care to dance with my brother?"

"Lucky for me," said Michael, visibly relieved.

"Fortunately, I need not be so nice," said Walter with a smile. "I hope you do not consider dancing with me such an unpleasant chore."

"Of course not," she said quietly. "I hope you will excuse me, sir. I must greet my guests."

The Wentworth family had just arrived, and Walter greeted his aunt with a kiss. She smiled up at him and said, "Walter, you grow more handsome every time I see you."

"My mother says I have the Elliot countenance," Walter responded lightly, "so if I am handsome, I have your family to thank."

"The Elliot countenance? No," said Lady Wentworth consideringly. "You have always reminded me of my mother's father, James Stevenson. Miss Gilbride," she called, turning toward Eileen, "is the portrait of Mr. Stevenson still in the Blue Saloon? Although I suppose it is not Blue anymore," she added.

"Is he the dashing gentleman in the pink satin coat?" asked Eileen with a smile. "Yes, he is still there. He watches over me as I do the household accounts."

"I would like to show the portrait to Walter. There is a resemblance there, do not you think?"

Eileen raised an eyebrow. "I have never noticed it, but then I have never seen Mr. Musgrove in pink satin."

"And you never shall," Walter assured her as she led the way to the Blue Saloon.

Despite Lady Wentworth's misapprehensions, the saloon was indeed blue; the wallpaper was a light, icy shade, the draperies were of darker blue velvet, and the furniture upholstered in various shades of blue stripes and damasks, accented with pillows of different shapes and sizes, all blue.

Lady Wentworth looked around appreciatively. "Miss Gilbride, this room is lovely! It looks very like it did when my family lived here. This was my mother's sitting room. But I seem to recall that Lady Elliot--the last Lady Elliot, that is--had redecorated."

"She did," said Eileen, with a small shudder. "In horrid, heavy dark red and purple. The housekeeper told me how it had been, and your son has generously allowed us to change whatever we like." She smiled shyly at Lady Wentworth. "It must be strange to come here as a guest, when this house was once your home."

"It is strange," Lady Wentworth admitted. "But seeing how charmingly you have fitted up this room has made it much easier. And there is my grandfather." She led them to a large portrait hanging on the far wall.

James Stevenson looked down on them benevolently. At first, Walter could not see any trace of himself in his great-grandfather's countenance; the colourful clothing and elaborate powdered wig stood in strong contrast to Walter's elegant black evening suit and carefully-arranged dark hair. However, there was something there--in the dark eyes, the high cheekbones, the strong jaw, the lips that quirked up at one corner with barely-hidden amusement--that hearkened to a family tie.

"Did people really dress like that when you were a girl?" Walter asked his aunt.

She laughed. "This was painted around the time my mother was born. By the time I was old enough to remember, most people had begun to relegate powdered wigs and satin coats to their footmen."

Walter glanced at Eileen, who was smiling at him. "What is it?" he asked her quietly.

"I am amused at my own silliness." She gave Mr. Stevenson an affectionate glance. "I have sat here idly and imagined all sorts of fascinating histories for this fellow--I have named him Louis, by the way, never having been informed of his identity--and now that the resemblance has been pointed out to me, I am trying to picture you as a deposed French aristocrat forced to make his living as a highwayman. I confess that I have always had a weakness for a rogue."

Walter deepened his voice and cried out in a very bad French accent, "Stand and deliver! Those pearls, mademoiselle, would make ze pretty toy for a certain opera-dancer back in Paree."

"My dear sir, I would very much like to oblige your--er--opera-dancer, but I cannot. This pistol that I carry in my reticule should serve as my pass."

"You would shoot a poor, deposed aristocrat who is merely trying to make his living? Recall how expensive is ze pink satin, mademoiselle!"

"I dare say not as expensive as the opera-dancer. I have sympathy for your unfortunate circumstances, sir, but I am persuaded that your lady is perfectly capable of supporting herself, without reference to my pearls."

"Walter! There you are!" Mrs. Musgrove stood in the doorway with Sir Bernard. "What are you doing in here? Sir Bernard and I have had a famous notion! You shall open the ball with Miss Gilbride! Who better to do it, after all, than the grandson of Sir Walter Elliot? If Charles had not been so stubborn about staying home with Anne tonight, I would have insisted that he do it, but this is probably for the best, as you are a much better dancer."

Walter glanced at Eileen. Her gaze was averted and her face showed a faint blush. "I would be delighted to do so, if Miss Gilbride is amenable."

"Of course," said Eileen quietly. "I thank you, sir." She passed him quickly without meeting his eyes and followed the others out of the room. Walter watched her with a frown, wondering at her sudden change of demeanour from friendly banter to a cold, embarrassed distance at the simple idea of dancing with him. He lingered a moment, gazing up at Mr. Stevenson, feeling an odd kinship with this man he had never met and wondering if he had understood the minds of women any better than his great-grandson.

In the passage between the drawing-room and the ballroom, he caught up with Eileen and touched her arm. "If you would prefer not to dance with me, Miss Gilbride--"

"No, no." She shook her head. "I am sorry that you have been forced into this. I know not what my father was thinking."

"I do not feel as though I have been forced into anything distasteful. I should very much like to dance with you." The musicians played a warning flourish, and Walter put out his arm.

Eileen smiled at him. "Have a care, sir; such gentleman-like behaviour might lead you to lose your dastardly reputation amongst the brotherhood of highwaymen!" She placed her gloved hand upon his arm and allowed him to lead her into the ballroom.

Something sparkling caught his eye, and he looked up almost involuntarily to see Gwendolyn Clay, clad in a gown of some shimmering stuff, standing to one side. Their eyes met; she smiled and bowed her head in acknowledgement just as a young man unknown to Walter claimed her hand for the dance. A bolt of envy struck him like cold steel in his heart.

Miss Gilbride proved to be a graceful dancer, the light silk of her dress swaying about her legs as they moved through the set. However, Walter found it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand; his eyes kept moving to Gwendolyn and her partner, a dandyish young man that Walter thought must be one of his cousin George Hayter's set. At last the music stopped, and Walter once again became aware of his partner. He thought rather guiltily that he should apologize for being inattentive, but to his relief, Eileen simply murmured an excuse and slipped away.

He found Gwendolyn sitting alone in a corner, delicately working out non-existent wrinkles from her elbow-length gloves under the disapproving scrutiny of several matrons.

"Those old cats are watching you like you've stolen their cream," he said with a grin.

Gwendolyn flicked her eyes in their direction, then back to her task. "Spiteful creatures! I shall not let them ruin my evening."

"Do you think a waltz with the rector would raise your reputation in their eyes?"

She smiled up at him. "More likely bring down yours, but if that is an invitation, I accept."

A few moments later, they were whirling about the floor, her trim waist tucked into the curve of his arm. Walter had eyes for no other; there was only Gwendolyn, the muted light sparkling from her diamond necklace and the silver-embroidered net of her gown. Later, he could not remember what they talked about, only that there was laughter and a sense of dizzying joy in having her once more in his arms. He thought that everyone must be watching them, watching her, the men wishing that they could take his place, and there was triumph in the thought that he alone knew of the very private delights of Gwendolyn Clay's company.

It seemed only a moment until the music stopped, and Walter reluctantly escorted his partner to a chair. The eyes of the matrons, and at least one raised lorgnette, were upon them, so he simply gave her hand a significant squeeze, bowed, and left her.

Walter wandered about the room, trying to keep a silly grin from his face, never thinking to ask the hopeful ladies sitting down to be his partner. It would have diluted his happiness, to dance with another woman after being so close to Gwendolyn, so close that he could still smell her perfume. Miss Clay had already obtained another partner, and Walter watched them dance with benevolent approval. It was very right and proper that she should not sit out.

At the beginning of the next set, Walter was at last able to bring himself to partner other ladies. He would not ask Gwendolyn again, not yet; he would save that happiness for later, after the supper break. After a string of forgettable partners, he saw his cousin Sophie Wentworth sitting down by herself, and went to her.

"I hope you saved me a dance," he said with a smile.

Sophie looked up at him sadly. "I do not care to dance."

"What's this?" he cried in mock astonishment. "Sophie Wentworth, not dancing at a ball? Have you turned your ankle, love? Do you have the headache?"

"No, of course not," she said, lifting her chin proudly. "I just do not care to dance, that is all."

"You will dance with me. I shall brook no argument. Come along, now." He took her hand and tried to pull her to her feet.

Sophie resisted, protesting, "I have already denied other gentlemen. You will make a fool of me."

"Nobody can censure your taking pity on your poor clerical cousin. Come along." He finally succeeded in raising her from the chair. Sophie glared at him resentfully but allowed him to lead her away.

She was clearly in low spirits, and as Walter had high spirits to spare, he tried to impart some of them to his cousin. By the end of the set, she was smiling, but she was still not the lively Sophie of old.

"Come in to supper with me," he coaxed her. "I will fetch you some lemonade, and perhaps they have some of those lobster patties you like."

Sophie heaved a dramatic sigh and reluctantly preceded him into the supper room. Walter found two chairs, installed Sophie at one of them, and went off to fetch the refreshments. The room was crowded, and it took some time to obtain them; when he returned he found George Hayter in the chair next to Sophie, whispering in her ear, while she wore a look of profound distaste.

George had come down from Oxford a few years before and had gathered about him a set of young men with more fashion than sense who fancied themselves not unlike the Corinthians of their fathers' time. They never seemed to understand that the indulgence of such pretensions amid the rural farms of southern Somerset only made them laughably absurd.

"Here you are, Sophie," Walter said lightly, placing the plate of lobster patties and a glass of lemonade on the little table. "Some cold lemonade, as promised. Drink it before it gets warm. I wouldn't let them put it in a silver cup, either; makes it taste odd, if you ask me."

"I can fetch you something better to drink than that," George said to Sophie, who rolled her eyes.

"I know not what is the practice at Oxford these days, coz," said Walter genially, "but at Cambridge it was considered very bad ton to monopolize another fellow's supper partner. Move along, now."

"Do you want me to leave?" George murmured to Sophie.

"Oh, do go away," she cried, sinking her head in her hand.

"Yes, run along, cub," said Walter, seizing his cousin by the elbow and pulling him to his feet. "I think the lady has made herself quite clear."

George made as if to assume a fighting stance, and Walter added quietly, "If you create a disturbance at this ball, your father shall hear of it. Go away now and it will remain between us." George stared at him for a moment, then lowered his head and stalked away.

"Heaven preserve me from violent young lovers," Walter said to Sophie as he took the vacated chair. "'Tis a shame that my uncle Hayter did not make George take orders, or find him some other profession. It might have been the making of him." Sophie was silent, and after a moment Walter added, "You used to like George. Did he do something to change your mind, love?"

She idly twisted the glass of lemonade this way and that. "No, nothing very bad."

"'Nothing very bad?' But he did something?"

Sophie took a delicate sip and said, "I let him kiss me, just once, and he has not left me alone since." She glanced over at Walter and added, "You tried to warn me, and you were right."

Walter patted her arm. "Letting a fellow steal a kiss is no great sin, Sophie. It certainly does not give my cousin the right to importune you when you have made your preferences clear. I shall speak to my uncle about it."

"Oh, no!" cried Sophie. "George is so afraid of his father--I do not want to get him in trouble."

"I doubt he would show you the same consideration, love, but I shall respect your wishes." They sat quietly for a moment, and then Walter added, "You know that if any man is bothering you, and you do not wish to tell your father, that you may depend upon me at any time. You are not alone, Sophie. I promised Edward that I would watch out for you while he is away. Look upon me as acting in the place of a brother."

Sophie smiled at him with real sweetness, and Walter reflected that she was a much more attractive girl when she let go of her affectations. "Thank you, Walter." She offered him the plate of lobster patties, which he declined, and she applied herself to them with relish.

Sir Bernard stopped at the table, crying out genially, "Mr. Musgrove! Miss Wentworth! I hope you are enjoying yourselves!"

"I think my cousin is enjoying the lobster patties, sir," said Walter with a grin. Sophie's mouth was full, so she just nodded.

"Capital! Mr. Musgrove, can I interest you in a wee glass of whiskey?" He proffered a bottle nearly full of a light amber-coloured liquid.

Walter eyed it doubtfully. "I have never tasted whiskey." This was true enough; a brief and disastrous experimentation with gin in his schooldays had led him to confine himself to wine and brandy, and he rarely drank either to excess.

"Never tasted good Irish whiskey? Well, that is an oversight that we must remedy!" Sir Bernard snapped his fingers at a servant, who hastened over with two tumblers. Sir Bernard poured generous portions and handed one glass to Walter. "Sláinte!"

Walter sipped cautiously, expecting the liquor to burn like brandy; to his surprise, it rolled over his tongue like velvet and slipped gently down his throat, spreading warmth all the way down and out to his limbs, and leaving behind a slightly sweet, fruity aftertaste. He sipped again, and again, and soon Sir Bernard was refilling his glass.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Please join me in a toast!" the older man cried, turning to the assembled company. "To her Majesty, the Queen!"

Everyone dutifully rose, repeated the toast, and drank, except for Eileen Gilbride. She remained seated at one end of a long table, staring mutely at the glass of champagne sitting on the table in front of her. There was an embarrassed silence, and Sir Bernard hastily lifted his glass again and said, "To Lieutenant Wentworth, the absent lord of this fine manor!"

This time, everyone drank; more toasts were proposed, and Sir Bernard kept a strict eye on Walter's glass, refilling it before he could ask. Sophie begged a taste, and Walter allowed her to sip from his glass; she made a face and took a gulp of lemonade, making her cousin laugh.

Before supper was over, Walter's glass was refilled several more times, and because of the pleasant warmth and light taste of the whiskey, and because he was seated, he did not realize how the liquor affected him until he tried to stand up to take Sophie back into the ballroom. The room swam in front of him; he reached out and clutched the arm of the chair, and hastily sat down again.

"Can ya wait a momen', love?" he slurred to Sophie.

She stared at him in amazement for a moment, and then laughed aloud. "You're foxed! I am not surprised; you drank enough of that whiskey to float a frigate."

"Wasn' dat mush," he protested weakly.

Sophie rolled her eyes. "I wonder what is worse: having your partner pester you for a kiss or having him get drunk at supper. At least George Hayter is still capable of dancing."

"I don' wanna kiss," he muttered.

"That is well, for you shall not get one."

"You go back an' dance," he said, pushing her toward the door. The room was empty except for servants gathering discarded dishes and glasses.

Sophie stopped teasing and looked at him gravely. "Are you sure? Can I get you something?"

"No, no, jus' gotta res' a bit."

"Very well," she said doubtfully, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "There, you get a kiss for being sweet earlier, though I'm sure you don't deserve it."

"Thanks, love," he said, grinning at her, and she smiled and left him.

Walter sat for a moment, enduring the amused and knowing glances of the servants, and then remembered the large French windows in the Blue Saloon. He rose unsteadily and lurched out of the supper room, down the passage to the now-darkened apartment, occasionally bumping into walls along the way. He made his way to the windows, yanked them open, and breathed deeply of the cool night air, feeling more sober with each breath.

"Walter?" said a female voice behind him. For a moment he thought it might be Sophie, and then he turned and saw Gwendolyn. The sight of her in the moonlight cascading through the windows made him smile. "I saw Sophie come back from supper by herself and I came looking for you. Are you ill?"

"You look like a midsummer night," he said, grinning at her stupidly. "Your hair is the moon, your dress and your skin are a beam of moonlight, and your diamonds are the stars." He took a step toward her, and realized too late that his assessment of his relative sobriety had been misleading; the room spun, and he lurched as he tried to walk.

Gwendolyn stared at him for moment, then cried in tones of disgust, "You are drunk!"

Walter clutched the window frame and muttered, "Just a trifle bright in the eye, love."

"Bright in the eye indeed!"

The coldness in her eyes was distressing to Walter, who murmured, "Don't be angry, pretty Gwen. You look so pretty tonight, please don't be angry with me."

He reached out for her; she pulled back with a low cry of distaste, but Walter was too quick. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him inexorably, murmuring endearments. Then his arm was about her waist and his mouth upon hers, and for a moment it was like it had always been; the memory of the way their bodies fitted together, the way her waist felt in the curve of his arm, coursed through him like fire in his veins. Then, through the waves of inebriation, he slowly became aware that Gwendolyn was struggling to free herself from his embrace. He released her immediately, and received a stinging box on the ears as payment.

"How dare you!" she cried. "Who do you think you are, that you can get drunk and manhandle me? I swore I would never allow myself to be so ill-used again, not by any man--not even by you, Walter Musgrove!"

Walter leaned back against the window frame and touched the side of his face gingerly. The slap had sobered him somewhat; in his new clarity, he suddenly remembered that he had seen her diamond necklace before.

"I beg your pardon," he said coldly, "but you are not quite the picture of moral rectitude, you know. Not standing there wearing that necklace that Dalton gave you in payment for--services rendered. I wonder, what liberties might I be allowed if I gave you a diamond necklace?"

Gwendolyn stared at him a moment, her hand moving instinctively to her throat, where the diamonds sparkled provocatively. "I do not know what you mean."

"You forget, Gwen. I was there when Dalton gave it to you."

"I did forget." She fingered the necklace nervously. "I have just got it out of pawn. I lived off the money from this necklace for two years, until--"

"Until your stepfather conveniently died and left you a fortune. Also in payment for services rendered, I believe." Walter knew he was being unnecessarily cruel, but could not stop himself.

Gwendolyn glared at him. "I only allowed Dalton's attentions then to get the necklace, or some other trinket. He was free with them. I planned to sell it, to give us a start, let us get a house, get married. I did it for you--for us. You were never meant to know."

"I see. I was never meant to know. And I suppose that, the next time we were feeling a trifle purse-pinched, you would fall back into Dalton's arms and get another trinket to sell, while I go about in contented ignorance. And everyone could say, 'Poor Walter Musgrove, so besotted he knows not when he is being cuckolded.' If you think I would consent to live on money got in such a way and never ask questions about it, Gwen, then you do not know me at all."

"No," she said softly. "I begin to think that I do not know you." She turned and fled from the room.

Walter watched her leave in righteous silence. All his happiness from earlier was gone; he could no longer look at Gwendolyn without seeing the necklace, without thinking of her in Dalton's arms. The pain of her betrayal that he had kept at bay for three years, that he thought was gone forever, returned with a vengeance, and he made his way to a sofa and collapsed upon it.

He lay on his back, one foot still on the floor and one leg hanging over the scrolled arm of the sofa. When he closed his eyes, the room immediately locked into a tight spin, increasing in speed until he felt the weight of it would crush him. He reached out, desperately trying to anchor himself to earth; when his hand made contact with the cool wall, the spinning stopped at last.

A warm wave of sleep washed over him, and he dozed for a time, waking when he heard voices in the room. The sofa lay in shadow, and he could not be seen, as long as he did not speak or move to give himself away. His senses were a little fuzzy, and he was comfortable, and very much inclined to just stay there on the sofa for a while.

"Why did you not join my toast to the Queen, girl?" Walter recognized Sir Bernard's voice, now uncharacteristically subdued.

"You know why, Da." That was Eileen, the Irish lilt more pronounced than usual.

It's like music, Walter thought, a smile spreading across his face. Her voice is like music. Or like water tumbling over rocks in a brook.

"You embarrassed me in front of our neighbours."

"I am sorry if I did, but you know how I feel about this subject. Next time give me a hint and I'll leave the room first." Walter could not see her, but knew the impish grin that she was wearing as she spoke.

"You're so like your mother, Eibhlín. And not just in looks."

"Too much for your comfort, I know."

"Aye. You're a proud, stubborn girl, and I love it in you as I loved it in your mother."

Walter turned his head slightly, and in the light of the single candle they had brought with them, he could see that father and daughter were embracing. He smiled and turned away, not wishing to intrude on their privacy.

"I had best get back to our guests. Will you come?"

"In a moment."

The door closed, and Walter heard Eileen moving across the room toward the French windows. He looked up and saw that she was preparing to close them, and he said sharply, "No! Please don't!" He tried to sit up but only succeeding in falling off the sofa into a heap on the floor.

"Who's there?" cried Eileen in alarm.

"Walter Musgrove," he said, rather sheepishly.

"Mr. Musgrove?" There was a note of concern in her voice as she advanced on him with the candle. "Are you ill?"

"No, not precisely." Walter managed to pull himself onto the sofa. His head felt heavy and his movements were slow and deliberate. Eileen was staring at him, her brow creased in concern, so he added, "I am afraid I was a trifle overset by your father's whiskey."

"Good heavens! How much did he give you?"

"I am not sure," Walter admitted. "Five or six glasses--perhaps seven." Eileen burst out laughing, and he added defensively, "They were not very large glasses."

"They would not have to be," replied Eileen, very much amused. "I apologize, sir. My father does not always realize that other men have not his capacity. He was only trying to be a good host, I assure you."

"I do not blame your father," Walter sighed. "I could have refused. I suppose I should have."

"Shall I fetch your parents?"

Walter groaned and leaned his head back. "No. I would not have my mother make a scene at your ball. If you will lend me a horse, I can ride back to Uppercross."

"Certainly not," declared Eileen. "I shall not be responsible for you riding into a tree. If you wish it, I will order my father's carriage."

"Not yet," said Walter, reaching out to her. "Will you stay and talk with me for a while?"

"You want me to stay with you?" she asked softly.

"Yes, if you will." He gave her a lopsided grin. "I am not quite ready to go home, and I like talking to you."

Eileen hesitated, bunching her skirt in her hands nervously; finally she said, "Very well," and perched next to him on the sofa, which was only large enough to seat two.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the evening breeze stir the gauzy white inner curtains at the open French doors. Eileen ventured, "I suppose you heard my conversation with my father."

"I apologize. I did not mean to eavesdrop."

"Oh, I know that," she said, turning toward him hastily. "I just thought perhaps--you might be wondering why I did not join in the toast to the Queen."

"You need not tell me."

"No, I want to. I hope you will not think badly of me." She hesitated, then said quickly, "I am really very happy here in Somerset. Everyone is friendly and welcoming, but--"

"It is not your home," said Walter gently.

"That is not it," said Eileen reflectively. "I feel very much at home here, more so than I did in Dublin, even. In a way, I am afraid of becoming too much at home, as though if I forget Ireland, forget where I come from, it would be an affront to my mother's memory. My father does not understand. He thinks we are better off here than we were there, and he is probably right. He is from the North of Ireland, from Ulster. He was raised a Protestant. As a boy, he never knew the common prejudice that is practiced against Catholics in Ireland, even now."

"The law has given Catholics the same rights as Protestants."

"On paper, perhaps, but in practice--the poor of Ireland live in such degrading conditions, Mr. Musgrove! They are much worse off than the poor of England, if you can imagine it. Scrambling to grow potatoes on whatever tiny bit of land they can find for exorbitant rent, hoping those potatoes will last the winter so their families do not starve. I read in the newspaper that in America, the potatoes have a disease, a blight that causes them to rot in the ground. If that blight should ever pass to Ireland, I shudder to think what would happen to the poor." Eileen sighed and shook her head. "We were a great deal better off than most. My father traveled around Ireland as a young man; that is how he met my mother in Kerry. She agreed to marry him only if he would stay in the south. My mother's people were farmers, and my father rented a bit of land and raised pigs."

"Pigs?" asked Walter in surprise. "But now, he--"

"Oh, no," Eileen laughed. "Not anymore."

"What is your father's business?"

"You don't know?" Walter shook his head, and Eileen explained, "In his youth, he worked as a linen-weaver. When my mother passed on, he took Michael and me to Dublin and set up as an agent for linen-weavers who wished to export their goods. Later, he began to export wool as well."

Walter listened to the history in silent fascination. Eileen continued, "When we lived in Kerry, it pained my father to see how the Protestant landowners persecuted the poor Catholics, and they treated him as badly as any other. He begged my mother to let him take us north, but she could not bear to leave the land of her birth. My father did not want Michael and me to suffer that prejudice. I cannot blame him for taking us away, for trying to give us more--believe me, I've no desire to return to the pig farm. It is just that everything my father does to make us more English makes us less Irish, and sometimes I feel as though if I countenance it, I am being unfaithful to my mother's memory. That is why I did not join the toast tonight." She looked up at Walter with a rueful smile. "I should not have embarrassed my father in front of everyone, but I fear I have never chosen my battles skillfully."

Silence wrapped round them again. Walter felt that after their brief conversation, he had learned more about Eileen that night than he had in all the months of their acquaintance. Suddenly he turned to her and said, "I have a question."

Eileen glanced at him warily. "Yes?"

"Did your father call you Evelyn just now?"

She laughed softly. "He called me Eibhlín."

"Ev-leen?" Walter repeated doubtfully.

"That is my name, really, though 'Eileen' is easier for English tongues." Her smiled faded, and she added, "It was my mother's name. My father rarely uses it, anymore."

"Eibhlín," Walter said dreamily. "'Tis a pretty name. Does it have a meaning?"

"Yes, it means 'light.' 'Sunlight,' really.'"

Walter smiled. "It suits you." She looked at him questioningly, and he explained, "You light up a room when you enter it."

She stared at him for a moment, her surprise evident; then a smile spread across her face, and her voice held its usual bantering tone when she said, "That is a very pretty compliment, sir. Are you taking lessons from your friend Louis?" indicating the picture of Mr. Stevenson, which hung above the sofa.

"Oui, mademoiselle," Walter murmured, leaning closer to her. "I still have my eye on ze pearls. Do not forget, I am a rogue."

"That is well," she said softly, "for I am very fond of rogues." There was a moment's silence, and then Eileen said, "Now that I have done wearying you with my family history, shall I order the carriage?"

"Please do."

"Very well. If you like, rather than walk through the house, you may go out through the French windows. Turn right and walk straight ahead and you will come to the driveway. I will tell the coachman to meet you there."

Eileen rose and extended her right hand for her usual handshake. Walter took it and pressed her palm to his lips, then to his cheek. "Good night, sweet Eibhlín."

She smiled and caressed his face gently, as if touching something infinitely precious. "Good night, Louis," she whispered, and a moment later, she was gone.

Chapter XI

Posted on Monday, 5 November 2001

"Louis! Where are you?"

"In the garden!" he called, lifting his head from the sofa.

She was there, clad in a shimmering gown, one moment sea-green, another moment blue as the summer sky. Her hair gleamed in copper waves around her shoulders and down her back. "Darling Louis!" she cried, stretching out her hands.

He pulled her onto his lap, and she came willingly, laughing. Her eyes had never been so blue, and the silk of her gown was soft under her hands as he kissed her lips, her white throat, and ran his hands through the glossy strands of her hair...

Walter opened his eyes and sat up, his heart pounding. He looked around and tried to acclimate himself to his surroundings. In a heartbeat he had gone from sofa in his garden to his own bed. He had fallen into bed in the shirt and trousers he had worn to the ball, his coat lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed, and there was a terrible taste in his mouth. He lay back down and groaned softly, trying to gather the unraveled threads of his dream. How had the sofa from the Blue Saloon at Kellynch got into his garden? And why was Eileen's hair unbound? And why, for heaven's sake, was he kissing her? Kissing her rather passionately, too. He would not kiss Eileen that way, the way he had kissed Gwendolyn.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, and then moved his head experimentally; no, no headache, strangely enough, though his body was stiff and his eyes heavy with fatigue. The events of the previous night came back to him, though imperfectly. Gwendolyn's face swam before him, as did Sophie Wentworth's, and Eileen Gilbride's. Gwendolyn was in his arms, and then Eileen--no, he had not kissed Eileen. Had he? He tried to recall the last moments he had spent at Kellynch--he remembered Eileen's hand, soft and cool upon his fevered cheek, but he could not remember kissing her, except in his dream; but the dream had felt very real.

Finally he tossed back the tangled sheet and rose. He stumbled over his dress shoes, which were lying by the side of the bed where he had dropped them the night before, and impatiently kicked them out of the way and rang for hot water. When he was dressed, Mrs. Brumby had his breakfast ready, the usual tea and toast, a grateful repast to a rebellious stomach. By the time Miss Gilbride's gig pulled up outside the parsonage, Walter felt equal to walking outside to meet it, and more importantly, equal to meeting Miss Gilbride.

Michael had already climbed down from the gig, and greeted Walter with all the brightness of youth, as if he had not danced until long past midnight. Walter sent him into the house and turned to Eileen. "Please accept my apologies for my behaviour last night."

She smiled warmly. "No apology is necessary. You are not the first man I've seen overcome by a bottle. At least you did not--what is that saying? Cast up your accounts?--in the Blue Saloon!"

"Let us thank Providence for small mercies," he replied gravely, imagining the mortification of vomiting on one of the elegant blue cushions.

Eileen's eyes sparkled appreciatively. "How is your head?" she asked.

"Not as bad as I would have expected," he admitted.

"Good Irish whiskey will not give you a bad head," she said with authority.

"Now you sound like your father." Walter's glanced at Eileen's gloved hands, deftly holding the whip and the reins, and remembered the cool white hand that had rested against his cheek. He cleared his throat and stepped back from the gig, hoping that he was not blushing. "I shall not keep you," he said to cover his confusion. "I am sure you have much to do."

"I promised Anne that I would come to the Cottage today and tell her all about the ball."

"You might as well tell her about my execrable conduct," Walter said with a faint smile. "Depend upon it, by tonight your father's coachman will have told his cronies down at The Smiling Weasel how the rector had to be taken home in his cups. The news will be all over the neighbourhood by tomorrow."

"I hold that it is not a bad thing for a man of God to be seen as having human failings from time to time." She saluted him with her whip and drove away.

At the Cottage, Anne was ensconced on a sofa with her feet propped upon a cushioned bench. "My dear Eileen!" she cried, stretching out a hand. "You have saved my life! I feel as though I shall run mad, sitting here with no company!"

"Where is your husband?"

"At the stables." Anne smiled ruefully. "Poor, dear Charles! No one could be kinder, and yet I take out all my frustrations on him. I snapped at him shamefully not an hour ago, and he ran away. I do not blame him a bit." She drew a deep breath and rubbed a hand along the small of her back.

Eileen settled herself in the chair opposite the sofa and pulled out her embroidery. "It will all be over with soon."

"That is what I keep telling myself. It is just that I am so restless! How I long to take Wamba out for a good, hard gallop!" She rubbed at her back again. "Well, now you are here to distract me. Tell me all about the ball! Did you dance? What did you wear?"

"I wore a new gown that you have not seen, a blue-green silk with lace on the sleeves. Oh, and thank you for sending Rose to do my hair! I received ever so many compliments."

"You are very welcome. I wish I could have seen you! With whom did you dance?"

Eileen was threading her needle with great attention. She said evenly, "I opened the ball with Mr. Walter Musgrove."

"Did you?" Anne's eyes sparkled. "Walter is a delightful dancer, is not he?"

"Mr. Musgrove is an excellent dancer, yes."

Anne waited for more, but was disappointed. At last she said, "I am persuaded that you made a handsome couple."

"Oh, Anne!" Eileen stopped working and fixed an exasperated gaze on her friend. "When my father acts the matchmaker it is quite the outside of enough! I had thought better of you!"

"I am not trying to make a match," said Anne quietly. "But I do not attempt to deny that such a match would make me very happy." Eileen was silent. After a moment, Anne ventured, "Eileen, do you like Walter?"

Eileen considered for a long moment. Finally she said thoughtfully, "He listens to me. Really listens to me, you see? Not with an air of patronizing the bluestocking, but as though he is truly interested in what I have to say. I like talking to him, and I think he likes talking to me." She smiled at Anne, and added in a more cheerful tone, "It would not signify if I liked him, anyway. He could not take his eyes from Miss Clay the entire evening. Now, there is a handsome couple! You should see them waltz!"

Anne noticed Eileen's neat evasion of her question, but let it drop. "If Miss Clay was displaying as much of her bosom as is her custom, I do not doubt that he stared."

Eileen giggled. "Well, she does have an abundance of bosom to cover. I dare say she saves a great deal of money by having her gowns cut low."

"Detestable creature! I do wish she would take her claws out of Walter once and for all."

"I gather there is a history between them," said Eileen, to Anne's ears somewhat disingenuously.

"There is a history, though I have never asked Walter about it. I know she was dangling after him before Charles and I were married, but she went away, and I, for one, hoped it was for good."

"Mr. Musgrove is a grown man," said Eileen. "He may be trusted to choose his own wife."

"That is just the rub," Anne complained. "They would not suit at all. Can you imagine Gwendolyn Clay living quietly in the parsonage? Going out to call on the poor and sick in that ridiculous carriage of hers, with a liveried footman to carry her reticule? No, depend upon it, she would lure Walter away from Uppercross, and he would end up like her brother, dissipated and debt-ridden." Suddenly she gasped and put her hand to her lower back.

"What is it?" asked Eileen in some alarm.

"It is nothing. I have been having pains in my back since yesterday." Anne smiled ruefully. "I am well-paid for my ill-natured gossiping, I suppose!"

Walter was in no humour for tutoring, and Michael liked learning no better, so Walter set him a simple lesson and wrote a letter. At one point he glanced up and nearly laughed aloud. Michael was staring off into space, Cicero forgotten; his elbow was propped on the table and his chin rested on his hand. His eyes were dreamy, and he wore a faint smile. Walter sighed internally at this rather obvious example of a young man in the throes of his first love. Now we are in for it!

He waved a hand in front of Michael's face, making him jump guiltily. "May I ask who inspires this reflective mood? If it is my cousin Cecilia Hayter, I warn you, her brother Frank is a crack shot. It would not do to trifle with her."

"I haven't even kissed her yet," Michael objected.

"Yet? Have you plans in that direction, sir?" With an effort, Walter kept his face stern.

"Well, no, but..." Michael trailed off, blushing.

"I am glad to hear it. My aunt Hayter is rather relaxed with her daughters, but I should not like to hear of you taking advantage of my cousin."

"No, sir."

"Very well." Walter regarded his pupil fondly. "Fear not, I shall not comb your hair for liking Cecy. It is very natural, I suppose. She has grown into a pretty little thing."

"Miss Hayter," Michael said dreamily, "is the loveliest young lady I have ever seen!"

"And I am sure you have seen a vast number," observed Walter in some amusement. "How old is Cecy, anyway? Surely she is still in the schoolroom?"

"She is sixteen, and just finished with school."

"You are only fifteen," Walter reminded him.

"I shall be sixteen in two weeks!"

"So you shall. And before you reach your majority, I predict that my cousin will be long-forgotten and that you will fall in love with a score of pretty girls."

Michael looked at him skeptically and returned to Cicero with a world-weary shake of the head.

After another unproductive hour, Walter gave his charge leave to close his book. "When will your sister return?"

"I am to walk to the Cottage when I am finished."

For a moment, Walter was strongly inclined to accompany him. To sit with Eileen, to talk with her--yes, flirt with her, to make her laugh, to watch her eyes light with amusement, was a powerful temptation. However, after his lecture to Michael, Walter was acutely aware of another call he must make.

At Kellynch Lodge, he presented his card to the footman and asked for Miss Clay. The footman disappeared for a long moment, then returned with the intelligence that Miss Clay was not at home. Walter was quite sure that Gwendolyn was in the house, but did not press the matter. Clearly she was no more inclined to see him than he was to see her, but she had to know that he was there to apologize, and her denial annoyed him.

As he rode back to Uppercross, Walter pondered on his goddess and her tumble from the pedestal upon which he had placed her. It was now clear to him that his feelings for Gwendolyn were not of the nobler sort, manifested in his ungentlemanly behaviour the previous night. Since her return to Somerset, Gwendolyn had flattered, and flirted, and flouted her many attributes, and Walter had fallen for it like the veriest greeny; but he no longer loved her as he once had. He had made a cake of himself over the woman in front of the world, and the evidence of his fall from dignity was necessarily mortifying.

When Walter arrived at the stables, he dismounted, handed the reins to a groom, and went in search of his brother. Charles was in the tack room, shirt sleeves rolled back over his elbow, carefully grooming Wilfred. Walter sat upon an upended barrel and watched. The big horse seemed dignified even with its head immobilized by the cross-ties. Charles had lifted one of the creature's front hooves and was carefully cleaning the mud from it with an iron pick. When the operation was completed, he released the hoof and exchanged the pick for a comb, which he used to smooth the tangles in Wilfred's mane. The horse was unconcerned, accustomed to his master's gentle handling. The methodical grooming was relaxing to watch, and Walter leaned back against the plain board walls.

"So, Walter!" said Charles as he combed the mane. "How was the ball?"

"Well, I got drunk on Irish whiskey and made an ass of myself," Walter drawled.

Charles laughed, and then glanced over at his brother and said in surprise, "You are not joking!"

"No, I am not. I wish I were."

"Did you take off your clothes and dance on the lawn?"

"I am afraid not. I kissed Gwendolyn Clay."

Charles did not laugh at the revelation. "In front of all the company?"

"No, thankfully. We were alone in the Blue Saloon." Walter was silent for a moment, and then added, "She boxed my ears for it."

"Good for her! Though I wonder what she thought might occur during a private assignation in the Blue Saloon. It is not as though she were not...worldly."

"No. Perhaps that is why I have always been attracted to her: we are a great deal alike."

"No!" Walter glanced up in surprise at the vehemence in his brother's response. Charles had stopped his activity and was glaring at Walter. "You are not heartless, Walter. You would not have betrayed her as she betrayed you." Wilfred, sensing his master's mood, shifted his hooves restlessly, and Charles automatically placed a hand on the horse's neck.

Walter felt he must rise to Miss Clay's defense. "You do not know Gwen," he said. "She has her reasons for what she does. She is not heartless, not really."

"She betrayed you once," said Charles, turning back to his task. "She would do it again. Do not lose your head over such a woman."

There was a commotion outside the tack room, and Rose, the Uppercross Cottage maidservant, ran into the tack room. "Mr. Charles!" she cried breathlessly.

"What is it, Rose?"

She gazed at Charles with wide eyes, clutching at her chest and trying to catch her breath. "It's time, sir!"

"Time?" Charles stared at her in consternation; then his face cleared as her meaning dawned. "Oh! Time!" He turned about a few times, unsure of what to do next. Finally he put down the grooming comb. "Has someone sent for the midwife?"

"Yes, sir, Thomas went to fetch her."

"Good, good." Charles raked his hand through his hair. "Rose, run to the Great House and tell my mother, and bring her back to the Cottage." The girl nodded and ran out.

Charles turned to Walter. "Will you go to Oakmont Park and fetch Anne's mother?"

"Of course."

"Here." Charles unhooked the cross-ties that held Wilfred's head immobile and handed the halter to his brother. "Ride Wilfred. He's the fastest horse in the stable. I must go to Anne." He left the stable at a run.

Walter glanced doubtfully at the horse, which gazed back at him balefully, its ears flat against its head. "Don't worry, lad, I like the idea no better than you." He indulged himself momentarily with the amusing vision of his dignified aunt riding pillion behind him as Wilfred cleared a fence, then handed the halter to a groom and ordered the gig hitched.

Walter followed his aunt into the Cottage and stood in the hall, not sure where to go or what to do. Lady Wentworth handed her hat and cloak to Rose with her usual aplomb, and climbed the stairs as the housekeeper descended.

"You should go up, Mr. Walter," said Mrs. Rudd. "We can't get Mr. Charles out of there, nohow, and he can't stay there while Mrs. Charles is labouring!"

"No," Walter agreed, and followed her up the stairs. He heard a muffled cry from the bedchamber, and stood outside awkwardly while the housekeeper sailed in. Anne, supported by her husband and the midwife, walked from one side of the room to the other, breathing heavily.

"It's time for you to leave, Mr. Charles," said the housekeeper. "Your brother is here to keep you company. We'll take good care of Mrs. Charles, don't you fret."

"I am not leaving." Charles was determined.

"Please go, Charles." Anne's face already showed fatigue and pain. "Please. Go with Walter, and leave me to have this baby in peaAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!" She bent double, clutching at her belly.

"No, Anne, I can't leave you like this!" cried Charles.

Anne looked up at him through hair, soaked with sweat, that hung lank across her forehead. "For God's sake, Charles!" she cried angrily. "I don't want you here! Please, go away!"

Walter seized his brother by the collar. "Come along, Charles," he said firmly.

Charles accepted defeat; he kissed Anne, who smiled and touched his cheek. "Everything will be well, my love," she said, and Walter hauled him out of the room and shut the door behind them.

"Oh, Lord, what have I done?" moaned Charles as Walter pushed him down the stairs.

"The same thing nearly every married man has done. Marriage is for the procreation of children, remember?"

Charles was inconsolable. "If anything happens to Anne, it will be all my fault."

"Don't be such an old woman, Charles. Women give birth every day."

"Yes." Charles did not add the corollary, and women die in childbirth every day, though clearly he was thinking it.

They sat in the drawing-room, playing chess indifferently. Walter won the first two games, a strong indication of Charles' absence of mind. "That's enough," said Charles as Walter captured his queen for the third time. He stood and paced the room restlessly.

"Can I get you a brandy, or a glass of wine?"

"No. I don't want to be drunk, when..." Charles' voice trailed off.

Walter controlled his impatience. "Anne will be well, Charles."

Charles turned and faced him. "I don't want to be drunk, when my child is born. If that is acceptable to you." He started to pace again. "It's just this infernal waiting!" he cried. "I've midwifed half a hundred foals, and it never took so long!"

"For the thousandth time, I remind you that Anne is not a horse. Humans bring forth their progeny in surroundings of relative safety and comfort. In the wild, horses are prey, and have need of a quick delivery. There is not a pack of wolves on a nearby hill set to devour your weakened wife and defenseless child, so I suggest that you calm yourself and accept the waiting period as inevitable."

Charles, however, continued to pace.

After a time, the prospective grandfathers came to the Cottage to wait with them. Walter was grateful for their appearance, because they distracted Charles with their jokes and raillery. Sir Frederick entertained them all with the story of Edward's birth, which took place several weeks before the expected date, unfortunately while they were in the process of sailing to his new station in the Caribbean and trying to outrun a hurricane. "So you see, Charles," he said, pouring a glass of wine, "Anne is, by blood, constitutionally suited to withstand the difficulties of childbirth. Being at home, in her own bed, attended by women instead of a ship's surgeon who had taken more laudanum than he had distributed and an illiterate loblolly boy, I dare say will be to her advantage."

"I remember it took hours for you to appear, Charles," Mr. Musgrove added. "Walter's birth was rather faster, and by the time Eliza came along, it was hardly any time at all. Be of good cheer, son. Are you sure you won't take some of this wine? It is very good."

Just then, the door to the drawing-room opened to admit Lady Wentworth. Charles jumped to his feet, his face all anxiety. "What is it?"

She smiled and said, "You have a daughter, Charles. Would you like to see her?"

Charles wiped a hand across his eyes. "Anne?" he asked.

"Anne is well, and is asking for you."

Charles stared at her a moment; then a dazzling grin broke across his face, and he ran out of the room and up the stairs.

Lady Wentworth turned to the remaining occupants of the drawing room. "Gentlemen, I give you joy of a beautiful niece and granddaughter. Come along and see her." They followed her up the stairs.

When Walter had left the bedchamber chaos reigned; now all was order and calm. Anne was dressed in a clean nightdress and bed-jacket, her hair was combed and carefully plaited, and clean sheets and blankets were placed upon the bed. There were dark rings of fatigue under her eyes, but she was smiling broadly.

Charles went to her immediately and embraced her. "I thank God that you are safe," he said into her hair.

"Ooh, not so tightly," she said. Charles released her, grinning sheepishly, and Anne laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

"Here she is," said the midwife, bringing a blanket-wrapped bundle to the bed. "Mrs. Charles was a good girl, and you'll have a good baby because of it, sir."

"Let me have her," begged Anne, reaching out her hands. "I am greedy; I want to hold her all the time." The midwife placed the baby in her arms, and Anne unwrapped the blanket. "Here is your papa," she crooned, turning the baby to Charles.

He stared down at the baby, his face full of wonder. "She is so tiny! I'd forgotten how small new babies are." He reached out a tentative finger, which the baby grasped strongly. "Look at her fingers! Such tiny, perfect fingers!"

"She shall have lessons on the pianoforte," said Anne in satisfaction. "With those hands, she will be a fine player."

Charles gazed at his daughter for a long moment, and then looked up at Anne and smiled. "She has your eyes."

"And your mouth. She is a lucky little girl; she will have her father's smile."

"Have you thought of a name?" asked Lady Wentworth.

Anne glanced at Charles, who nodded. She smiled at her mother, who stood next to Mrs. Musgrove. "She's to be called Marianne, after her grandmothers."

Lady Wentworth took her sister's hand. "We have a namesake, Mary," she said, and the two women smiled at one another.

"Walter?" asked Anne, and he knew what she wanted. Mrs. Rudd stood ready with a small bowl of warm water. It was usual in the country to baptize children at home within a day of their birth, and he was ready for her request.

"Our Father, who art in heaven," he began, and a quiet murmur of voices continued the prayer as Walter took the baby from Anne, carefully supporting the infant's head within his elbow, and took his first good look at the new addition. Like most newborns, her face was red and rather wrinkled and squashed-looking. She had a shock of dark hair that stuck straight up, and eyes so dark they looked black, which moved around aimlessly without seeming to understand what they looked upon. Despite these shortcomings, she was a thing of beauty; there were hints of both her parents in her features, and she had long, elegant, utterly perfect fingers that would someday fly over the keyboard of a pianoforte. She was a living, breathing little miracle, and judging by the besotted look on Charles' face, she already had her first admirer.

When the prayer was finished and the voices died away, Walter scooped up a little water with his hand and trickled it over the child's head. She flinched, her hands waving indignantly; this, too, was all very much in the common way. "Marianne, I baptize thee in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

"Amen," everyone chorused.

Walter smiled down at his niece, and wiped the water away gently. "Welcome to the family, love," he said softly, and kissed her on the forehead before he handed her back to her mother. "She's beautiful," he said to Anne. "Fortunately, she takes after you." He shook Charles' hand. "My congratulations, brother."

The grandparents approached to see the baby. "She's a very pretty baby, Anne," said Mrs. Musgrove, peering down at the blanket-wrapped bundle. "Do not worry, next time I dare say you will have a boy."

Anne looked down, biting her lip, and Mr. Musgrove said hastily, "Come, Mary, we should leave them alone now. The baby will want to sleep soon."

Walter exchanged a grin with his brother, and everyone trooped out of the room, leaving the new family alone together for the first time.

Walter saw everyone off and began to walk back to the parsonage, but before he was halfway there, he veered away and headed for the stables. He did not want to go home; did not want to be alone. He wanted to be happy over the addition to his family, wanted to go where there was light and laughter, and where there would be someone who shared his joy. He turned the horse's head toward Kellynch.

He was admitted to the Blue Saloon as a matter of course. The Gilbrides were all there; Eileen rose as he entered, reading in his face that something had happened. "What is it? Is it Anne?"

Walter smiled. "Anne is safely delivered of a daughter, called Marianne. I thought you would like to know."

"Oh, I am so happy to hear it!" She approached him and shook his hand heartily. "Please accept my congratulations, Mr. Musgrove! What delightful news! Have you had supper?"

"I have not even dined," he admitted. "I was with Charles all afternoon."

"Then you must sup with us," cried Sir Bernard, shaking his hand. "I warn you, sir, we will not take no for an answer. Sure, and there is some cold meat in the larder for you!" He rang the bell and ordered supper to be brought in directly. "Will you take a glass of whiskey with me to toast the newborn?"

"No!" cried Walter and Eileen at the same time; they exchanged a glance and burst into laughter.

Chapter XII

Posted on Monday, 25 November 2002

June burst upon Uppercross in a blaze of beauty. The roses in Walter's garden, fertilized according to Eileen Gilbride's instructions and freed from the burden of deadwood that had choked them for so many years, flowered magnificently. The bulbs and seedlings bloomed and flourished; birds nested among the branches and fluttered about, tending to their young; bees hovered lazily, heavy with their burden of pollen, ensuring that the flowering plants would propagate. The garden was a delightful oasis, and the perfect place to sit and contemplate.

Michael Gilbride also found it the perfect place to study; on fine afternoons, he was never happier--or more attentive to his lessons--than when he was in the garden. Walter saw no harm in it, and the boy throve under the influence of fresh air and sunshine. One afternoon they were so deeply involved in Euclid that they lost track of time, until Eileen came into the garden, directed thither by the housekeeper.

She stood just inside the big wooden door from the sweep, staring about her, her expression one of pure delight. Walter rose, smiling, and went to meet her. "Is it how you imagined it, back in the spring?" he asked her.

She smiled at him. "It is more than I imagined," she said. "Much more."

They walked about, inspecting the blooming shrubs and the roses that climbed over the high stone walls. Eileen looked closely at the roses. "They bloomed a little early, I think. You should remove some of these blown blossoms; the plant will bloom better for it. I dare say Mrs. Wilson will have uses for the rose hips, so certainly you should not cut them all."

"Rose hips?" Walter was at a loss.

Eileen laughed at him. "Rose hips are the fruit of the rosebush. If you leave some blossoms to wither, the fruit will develop here toward fall." She pointed to the base of the blossom. "The fruit contains seeds, some of which you will want to reserve. I brew tea from rose hips; my father finds it is excellent for the digestion. It also seems to ward off colds. This early in the growing season, however, you still should remove the blown blossoms. Have you shears? I will show you which ones."

Mrs. Wilson had left shears, a basket, and heavy work gloves outside, and Eileen immediately appropriated them. She called her brother over; "Someone must teach you botany," she said with an arch glance at Walter, who just shook his head and smiled. She showed them how to identify the blossoms that had bloomed fully, and were beginning to drop their petals, and how to cut them off just beyond the base.

"This way," she explained, removing a wilted bloom, "the plant may direct its energies toward producing new blooms, rather than a seed pod, and you will have roses for a longer growing period." She told Walter of the hybrid rose varieties she had bred in the hothouse at Kellynch. "I shall reserve the seeds, and allow them to sprout in the hothouse over the winter, and set out the plants next spring. If they take, I shall give you a plant or two. There!" she said, cutting off the last dying bloom. "That will do for now." She turned toward Walter, and exclaimed in surprise. He held out a single perfect white tea rose.

"Why did you cut this one?" she asked. "It is just opening; it would bloom for another week, at least!"

"It is for you; for all you have done for me, and for this garden. And an advance payment for the hybrid rosebushes, as well."

"I thank you," she said, and her hand lingered on his as she took the flower; then she blushed, and looked away. Walter's eyes remained steadily upon her. Michael stared at them for a long moment; and then his face lit in a sudden, brilliant, grin.

The next morning, Walter stared out the library window toward the sweep, drumming his fingers impatiently. He was startled by a knock on the door, and even more startled when Michael entered with a decided spring in his step.

"When did you arrive?" asked Walter. "I did not hear the gig."

"I rode over," said Michael, visibly pleased with himself. "Eileen said the weather was so fine, I could take myself to lessons. Although she would make the groom ride with me," he added, his brow darkening. "I rode straight to the stable, and left the horse there, and walked over. Did I do right?" he added.

"Of course. You did exactly right." With an effort, Walter controlled his disappointment. "Right, then, did you read the assignment I gave you?"

As the end of her month of confinement approached, Anne grew increasingly restless. Charles brought her armfuls of flowers, but she still pined for her garden. The only consolation was having her daughter in her arms, but month-old infants sleep more than they are awake, and Anne's friends and family contrived to fill the empty hours of waiting. Walter was at the Cottage daily, and always found himself among a convivial group that might include anyone from his aunts to his mother to his cousins, and most often, Eileen. He always sat by her; always talked to her; and they were the subject of gossip from Winthrop to Crewkherne that declared Kellynch would see a wedding before Michaelmas. That this intelligence was in direct opposition of the common wisdom of only a few months before, which stated the wedding would be held at Kellynch Lodge rather than the great house, was not remembered by anyone. Gwendolyn Clay had gone to town for the remainder of the season, and it was said that she would be spending the summer in Brighton. She had been gone a fortnight before Walter realized he hadn't spared her a thought.

A month after Marianne was born, Walter performed the "churching" ceremony for Anne, her first public appearance since the birth, and the confirmation of Marianne's baptism was to take place the following week. Anne and Charles chose Eileen Gilbride and Elizabeth Leigh as Marianne's godmothers, and Edward Wentworth as her godfather. The ceremony would be a rather subdued affair; the infant had already been baptized at home, and her godfather's ship was somewhere between Bermuda and Nova Scotia and it was not known if he was yet aware of his niece's existence. However, Elizabeth insisted on interrupting her yearly visit to London to attend the ceremony and see her new niece.

The Leighs arrived in Uppercross in state; a procession of three carriages paraded grandly up the road to the Great House, the labourers in the field stopping their work to stare in astonishment at such an unusual sight. The first carriage bore Mr. Leigh's superior valet, Mrs. Leigh's even more superior dresser, and some other servants that could not be done without; the second carried the two little boys and their nurse; and the final equipage, the Leigh's town-chaise, brought Elizabeth back to her childhood home.

They were admitted to the parlour, where the family waited to greet her. She ran into the room, laughing and smiling, as vivacious and pretty as ever. She went to her father, and then her mother, to be embraced and kissed. Mrs. Musgrove stepped back, looked her daughter over critically, and said, "Eliza, are you breeding again?"

"Good God, Mamma!" she cried.

"Well, are you?" asked her mother, not at all abashed.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, but--in the future, I will thank you to remember that I would prefer to announce it in my own time, and certainly not in such a vulgar fashion!"

"No need to be missish with your own mother, young lady." She accepted a kiss on the cheek from her son-in-law, who seemed more amused than anything else at the exchange. "Hello, James dear, I hope you had a pleasant journey."

Elizabeth went to Anne and caught her in a long and warm embrace. "You look very well, dearest! Now, I want to see my niece as soon as possible. I am grown quite tired of exclusively male company," she added, giving her husband an arch glance over her shoulder.

"Tired of male company? You?" cried Charles, kissing his sister. "I never thought I should see this day."

Just then, the eldest boy, James, ran into the room, tripped and fell hard onto the wooden floor, and immediately began to wail. The harried-looking nurse came in carrying little George, who was already crying. "They're tired after the long journey, ma'am," she said apologetically to Elizabeth.

"Now, now, Jemmy," Mrs. Musgrove cried over the din, "be a good boy and Grandmamma will give you some cake. Won't that be nice?"

"No cake, Mamma," said Elizabeth firmly. "They should be put to bed directly."

"Come along, master Jemmy," said his father, scooping him up. "Up to the nursery with you!" He smiled at his wife, who gave him a look of pure gratitude and blew him a kiss, and then he carried the now-laughing boy upstairs, followed by the nurse with George.

"Ah," said Mrs. Musgrove as the room once again grew quiet. "I am sure that I love my grandsons very much, but I am no longer accustomed to the noise of children. I fear I shall be on the sopha the rest of the afternoon with the headache."

Elizabeth finally was able to embrace Walter. "I've missed you, dearest," she said in his ear. "Why do you not write to me? I must depend upon Anne for my news of you."

"I wonder at the sort of news you have procured in that way."

"I hear nothing but good things about you. Which reminds me," she added, turning to Anne and Charles, "are James and I to dine at the Cottage tonight? Do Mamma and Papa come as well?"

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Musgrove, headache forgotten at the prospect of a dinner party. "We are all to go, Eliza: your papa and I, and Walter, and the Gilbrides. Miss Gilbride is Marianne's second godmother."

"I know it," she responded. "So I am to meet the mysterious Miss Gilbride at last! I have heard so much about her from Anne. I shall look forward to it." She turned a speculative smile on Walter.

"What are you smiling at?" he said, though he could not help smiling back.

Elizabeth said nothing, but shook her head and stroked his cheek affectionately.

The dinner party at the Cottage was a pleasant one, and when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Walter was surprised to see his sister and Eileen chatting cozily together. He joined them, and Eileen immediately fell silent, and a moment later murmured an excuse and went to sit with Anne on the other side of the room.

"Was it something I said?" Walter asked Elizabeth.

"No, dearest. If you will take my advice," she continued in a low voice only audible to her brother, "you will give her a little time."

"A little time?" he repeated.

"Yes. Miss Gilbride needs a little time to become accustomed to the idea of being in love with you."

It was Walter's turn to exclaim at a female relative's outspokenness. "I'll have none of your matchmaking," he warned her. "You will not browbeat that poor girl to serve your outrageous schemes."

"I assure you, no browbeating will be required. She has been leading me to talk about you all evening. You need not worry," she added, "I was much more complimentary than you deserved."

"I thank you," he said with high irony.

Elizabeth ignored his sarcasm. "I am quite pleased with your choice, dearest. She is all I ever hoped for you."

"You seem very sure that I have made a choice."

"Oh, you have," she said calmly. "I know you, Walter. You would never pay so much attention to a young lady like Miss Gilbride if you were not serious. Your former, er--conquests, let us call them--were not the sort of woman a gentleman marries."

No stab of pain at the remembrance of Gwendolyn and her betrayal--could he have finally grown past it? "I wonder that you speak of gentlewomen and yet refer to my conquests in your brother's drawing room."

"I am a married woman," she said, "and I was never a fool. You are a very handsome man, you know--" Walter rolled his eyes and exclaimed-- "No need to be coy with your own sister. You are very handsome, and you are very easy to love when you are not being tiresome. Never before have you had to work at gaining a woman's regard. It will be good for you, and will make you appreciate her all the more."

Walter could not help being amused by such an air of superior knowledge from his little sister. "I thank you for your approval, love, but I still think you are a trifle beforehand."

She gazed up at him, her blue eyes sweet and earnest. "Promise me you will at least consider making a match with Miss Gilbride."

"I will consider it," he said solemnly.

Elizabeth laughed and clapped her hands. "Then I shall not worry about you any more!" She turned to her sister-in-law. "Anne, are we old married ladies to show off our neglected musical skills tonight?"

Walter took his sister's advice, and allowed Eileen some time and distance to know her mind. It was the easiest course of action, as he did not yet know his own.

Elizabeth's words were often with him: "Never before have you had to work at gaining a woman's regard." He had to admit that she was correct. Since he was a very young man, not much older than Michael Gilbride, women had pursued him--older women at first, sometimes married women, sometimes unmarried but not inexperienced women, even the occasional maidservant. He quickly learned to recognize the certain smile, the light in the eye, the carefully-orchestrated brush of skirts against his legs, the proximity that permitted a glimpse of perfumed decolletage: all the signals that a woman used to indicate her interest. He had taken what was offered him, taken it gracefully and gratefully and nearly always leaving the women feeling they had got the better share of the arrangement. He had never had his heart broken, had never been inclined to feel anything more complicated than physical desire, until he met Gwendolyn. She had given him a taste for more; for a meeting of the minds and hearts instead of a simple, selfish indulgence of pleasure.

Eileen Gilbride was a puzzle. Sometimes he read warm regard in her eyes, a regard that made his spine tingle with anticipation, the same look he had received from the parade of forgotten women; and then the next moment, she would repulse him, turn away, act coldly. If Eileen were an ordinary young woman, a girl like Charlotte Smedley, wanting nothing more than the consequence that marriage would bestow, he would have attributed it to coquettishness, but Eileen was incapable of such dissimulation. She wore her heart on her sleeve, and yet he received no firm message from her. The unwritten but understood rules of society did not permit plain speaking on such a subject, and try as he might, Walter could not take a likeness of Eileen's heart, or determine his place in it.

Elizabeth and James and the boys went to Ashleigh at the end of June, and with them went the round of social activity Mrs. Musgrove had promoted for their visit. Walter rarely saw Eileen; the days for Michael's tutoring were infuriatingly fine, and he rode over with only a groom for company. Walter spent a great deal of his spare time in his garden, half-hoping that Eileen might drive up in her gig and join him. He missed seeing her; he missed their conversations, missed her intelligence, her quick wit, the quirk of her lips when he said something that amused her. He missed the flash in her dark-blue eyes when she was angry or surprised. He missed the porcelain translucency of her skin, the way her hair shone in firelight, fire itself within the depths of it, a fire that could warm a man, and her eyes like a cool blue sea--

Damn, he thought. Eliza's right. I care for Eileen; and she's not the sort of girl one cares for without marrying her. He leaned back on the garden bench, crossed his arms over his chest, and sighed. "It is better to marry than to burn," he murmured to himself, and wondered what Gwendolyn would have said had she heard him quote St. Paul.

The morning had dawned cloudy and cool for July, and threatened rain; Eileen drove Michael to the parsonage for his lessons, but she was already down the sweep and turning into the road before Walter could get outside. He watched after her for a moment, then silently led his pupil into the library.

Within a few hours, the clouds were gone, and the sun shone brightly. Michael's eyes strayed to window at increasingly frequent intervals.

"Do you think we could go into the garden?" he finally asked.

"I believe it will be too damp."

"It never rained."

Walter leaned back and smiled at his pupil. "You are a very determined young man."

Michael grinned. "With my sister, one must be determined!"

"I shall remember that."

Mrs. Wilson was delighted to make up sandwiches for them, and soon they were carrying a tray and blanket into the garden. They spread the blanket under a tree and laid out their feast; not only sandwiches, but a bowl of freshly-picked strawberries and a pitcher of heavy cream. They had just tucked in when Eileen came into the garden.

"Michael! You will spoil your dinner."

"I doubt that," said Walter, watching Michael wolfing down a sandwich.

"You are probably right," she agreed cheerfully. Walter was pleased to see no evidence of her recent coolness; she seemed in high spirits as she moved around the garden, commenting upon the growth of various plantations. The gentlemen lolled upon the blanket, dragging the fat, sweet strawberries through a saucer of cream and popping them into their mouths. The sun was intense, and the heat hung in a peaceful blanket over the quiet garden. Eileen's gentle motions reminded Walter of a butterfly, lighting first here and then there.

He reached for a strawberry and saw that Michael had consumed nearly all of them. "Do you inhale them?" he asked incredulously. "Find Mrs. Wilson and see if she has any more. If there are none picked, tell her to show you the plants in the kitchen garden, and you may pick them yourself."

Michael went into the house, and Walter called to Eileen, "Miss Gilbride, if you want any of these strawberries, best get them now before your brother returns."

She hesitated; under the heavy veil that hung from the edge of her wide-brimmed hat, it was difficult to see if her face had taken on the wary expression he had seen so often of late. He prepared himself for disappointment, but she wound her way around the path and dropped to her knees upon the blanket. "The shade is delightful," she said as she unwound the veil and removed her hat. There was a light sheen of perspiration across her nose and cheeks, and a flush to her skin; whether from the heat, or exertion, or something else, he could not tell. "I do not realize the intensity of the sun until I leave it." She struggled with her gloves; she seemed to have difficulty removing them.

Walter sat up, took one of the strawberries, and dipped it into the heavy cream. "Here," he said, proffering it near her mouth. He expected her to take the entire berry in her mouth, but she bit down upon it; juice and cream ran down her mouth, and she gasped and laughed, lifting her hands to her mouth, but seemed afraid of soiling her gloves. Walter ran his thumb across her chin, wiping away the juice. She laughed again, and grasped his wrist; their eyes met; and then, because it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do at that moment, Walter leaned closer and kissed her.

He instantly regretted it. He expected her to exclaim, to move away, perhaps to slap him; all these thoughts passed through his mind in a second, and none of them occurred. Their faces were close together, and Eileen gazed into his eyes, as if measuring him. Walter reached up and touched her chin; he opened his mouth to say her name; and then she closed her eyes, and they swayed together into another kiss.

Walter slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Her hands, free now of the gloves, reached up to stroke his cheek and the nape of his neck. Her waist fit perfectly in the curve of his arm. Walter was unable to imagine a time when he had not kissed her, when he had not known her. They were together, where they belonged. She tasted of strawberries.

Then Eileen broke away from him, snatching up her hat and gloves and running to the door of the garden.

"Wait," called Walter, leaping to his feet and following her. "Wait--Eileen, please--"

She stopped at the door of the garden, arrested by his use of her Christian name. She turned to him, but would not meet his eyes. "Please, Mr. Musgrove," she said in a low, urgent voice. "We lost our heads, and we made a mistake. I shall never mention this incident again, and I pray you will not. I think it is best forgotten."

He seized her by the wrists. "Forgotten? I cannot forget--Eileen, you must know how I feel about you!"

She closed her eyes. "Please," she said, her voice a soft cry. "Please do not speak to me so--it was a moment's weakness."

"Eileen--"

"Mr. Musgrove--it cannot be. Please let me go."

He released her, and she went through the garden door just as Michael approached, holding a bowl of strawberries. "Fetch your things, Michael. We are leaving."

"Leaving?" He stood stupidly in the path, staring at her.

"Go on," said Walter, taking the bowl from him. "Get your books."

Michael gave him a reproachful look, and quickly fetched his books. He climbed up into his sister's gig, and as it drove away, Walter heard a snatch of conversation: "--ruined everything!" Michael was saying fiercely; and then the gig turned onto the roadway, and they were gone.

Walter stood by the garden door for a few moments, his eyes closed, remembering. He could still taste the strawberries.

Walter consumed Mrs. Wilson's excellent dinner methodically, without tasting it. He did not linger over a glass of port, as was his custom. He went into his library and tried to read a book, but soon abandoned it; he paced back and forth in front of the fireplace restlessly.

He knew that he wanted to marry Eileen Gilbride; he knew that he loved her. When they kissed, the emotion that he had buried so deeply inside himself had finally made itself known. His heart, deadened and scarred after Gwendolyn's betrayal, had been brought back to life; Eileen had done it, with the same sure touch that had turned his barren garden into a lush, green, perfumed landscape. There was no more ambivalence on his side; but her behaviour, first returning his kiss and then running away--what was he to think of that?

And why wouldn't she run away? he asked himself, running a hand desperately through his hair. He was certain that some gossiping fool had told her of him and Gwendolyn. Perhaps Eileen thought that he was taking a liberty, and did not realize that his intentions toward her were entirely honourable.

The small library became oppressive, and his steps turned out of it, out of the house, down the road a quarter-mile to the Cottage.

He pulled the bell, and after a moment Charles opened it, a look of astonishment on his face. "Walter? What is it?"

Walter realized that it must be very late. "Oh, good God--what is the time?"

"It is nearly ten o'clock."

"Forgive me, Charles, I--" he started to turn away, but his brother pulled him into the house.

"You are here now," he said, leading him into his own small library. "I can see that something is troubling you. What is it?"

Walter hesitated, then turned to his brother and blurted out, "How did you know that Anne wanted to marry you?"

Charles blinked in surprise, but said, "I did not know. I asked her without meaning to. I saw her with another man, and was horribly jealous, and I stuttered a pathetic proposal. Fortunately, it turned out that Anne returned my affection." He looked at his brother consideringly. "Does this have something to do with Eileen Gilbride?"

Walter looked his surprise. "Well--yes. How did you know?"

"You are not exactly circumspect, you know. Your admiration has been quite plain for some weeks now."

"Mine has? What of hers?"

"I do not understand."

"I have tried to tell her how I feel about her--I tried today. I kissed her in the garden. She liked it, Charles, I would swear to it--and then she ran out. I started to tell her--that I care for her--and she ran away, told me it was best forgotten. Oh, good Lord, I sound like a ninny." He collapsed into an armchair.

Charles was smiling. "No, you sound like a man in love."

"I am," said Walter fervently. "I am. But I cannot tell if she feels the same. What the devil do I do now? I cannot imagine my life without her, Charles. Sometimes she looks at me, and I think she can return my affection, and sometimes she looks at me as though she loathes me."

"I am sure she does not loathe you."

"You know, Eliza told me that Eileen was different--that I always could have any woman I wanted, and she was right. I don't know what to do when I have to pursue. I don't know if I should pursue."

"Walter," said Charles, "if you will take some advice from your big brother: pursue."

Walter looked at him sharply. "Do you know something?"

"I do not. Anne might perhaps, but she has not confided in me. However, when I was ambivalent about asking Anne, Father gave me some excellent advice: she is not going to ask you." Charles clapped him on the shoulder. "Onward into the breach, dear brother. Take my word for it: the spoils are worth the battle."

Walter was nodding. "Very well. Very well, Charles. I will ask her tonight--" he looked at the clock over the fireplace, and amended, "--tomorrow. I will ask her tomorrow."

"Good man," said Charles. "You might want to mention it to Mamma as well--she was rather hurt that I did not tell her before I proposed to Anne. I tried to explain about the unexpected nature of it, but she still casts it up to me from time to time. Go now--they will still be awake."

Walter let himself into the Great House--fortunately the door had not yet been locked for the night--and went into the parlour. His father dozed in his chair, a shawl cast across his knees; his mother sat at the small desk, writing a letter.

"Mamma?" he asked softly, not wishing to wake his father.

Mrs. Musgrove looked around sharply and let out a little shriek that immediately wakened her husband.

"Mary?" he said groggily, sitting up. "What is it? Where's my gun?" He looked around blearily, and then noticed Walter. "Oh, hello, son. A trifle late for paying calls, what?"

"I beg your pardon," he said, smiling at them. "I have some news that would not wait."

Mrs. Musgrove still stared at him wildly, her hand over her heart. "Walter, you startled me so--my heart is beating ever so wildly!" She waved at the tea service. "Fetch me a cup, there's a good boy, and then tell me your news."

He poured milk into the cup, then tea, and dropped in a lump of sugar, and carried the cup to his mother. "Here you are, love." His affection for his parents suddenly overflowed his heart, and he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

She looked up at him suspiciously, not touching the tea. "What have you done, Walter?"

"I've fallen in love, Mamma."

She relaxed visibly. "Oh, is that all? I suppose it is that Miss Gilbride?"

"Yes, Mamma. I hope you will welcome her as your daughter--that is, if she agrees to marry me."

Mrs. Musgrove was all indignance. "And why wouldn't she? You are the grandson of Sir Walter Elliot--and who is she, pray? Her father is a knight, it is true, but you come from an old English family. Miss Eileen Gilbride should be grateful to receive such an offer." She snorted into her teacup.

"I hope she is."

His mother continued to speak. "But if you are decided on her, I have something for you. Wait here." She put down her cup, rose, and went out of the room, trailing various shawls behind her.

Walter turned to his father, who was smiling at him fondly. "Well, Father? What say you?"

"I am pleased with your choice, Walter. Miss Gilbride is a fine woman, and will make you a good wife, I think." He added with an arched eyebrow, "Dare say she will look after your garden pretty well."

Walter laughed. "I dare say she shall. Thank you, sir."

Mrs. Musgrove came back into the parlour, carrying a flat leather-covered box. "Here," she said, handing it to Walter. "This is for Miss Gilbride."

Walter opened the box, which contained a set of sapphire and diamond jewelry. He looked up at his mother in surprise. "Mamma, these are beautiful."

"They were my mother's," she said thoughtfully. "Sapphires do not really suit me, but they will look well on Miss Gilbride, I think. You will give her the ring when you become engaged, and then the rest of the set for a wedding gift. Eliza will have most of my jewelry, and Anne will get my sister's, but you give that to your wife."

Walter closed the box and embraced his mother. "Thank you, love," he said into her ear.

Mrs. Musgrove patted him on the arm, her eyes suspiciously misty. "It is high time you married, Walter. I am happy for you."

The old clock chimed, and Walter rose. "Thank you. Thank you both." His parents' matter-of-fact acceptance of Eileen as a prospective daughter made him think that perhaps Eileen would not find his proposal entirely unexpected, or unwelcome, and he walked back to the parsonage with a light heart.

It seemed as though he had just closed his eyes when he was awakened by the sound of the door bell.

Walter immediately rose and reached for his dressing-gown. Such midnight visits were not an unknown circumstance in a clergyman's household. Parishioners fell sick and needed their priest at all hours; however, he had no intelligence of anyone in the parish with a dangerous illness. He left his bedchamber and went to the top of the stairs.

His manservant, the trailing ends of his nightshirt hastily and imperfectly tucked into his trousers, unbolted the door and admitted the messenger. Walter's heart sank within him when he recognized Eileen's groom. His knees buckled, and he reached out unsteadily to grip the banister. Oh dear God, no, he thought weakly. Please, no. Not now.

He found his voice, and called down the stairs, "Who is it?" He managed to sound relatively normal.

The groom looked up the stairs. "It's Sir Bernard, Mr. Musgrove. He's had a bad spell, sir, and he's asking for you."

"Very well. Let me get dressed."

"I'll wait, sir; Miss Eileen had me bring the gig."

Trust Eileen to see to all the details, no matter what the circumstances, thought Walter with wry affection as he returned to his bedchamber. He dressed quickly, pulled on his boots, and ran down the stairs. He was about to leave when he noticed his housekeeper standing in the shadowy entrance to the passage that led to her room by the kitchen.

"I'll pray for them, sir," she said. "I'll pray for all of them."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brumby." Walter followed the groom out to the gig.

Continued In Next Section