Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Chapter 3, Part 2

Posted on Sunday, 6 February 2000

John Barrow arrived back home from his interview with Tim Scoggins and went to find his wife. He located her, characteristically enough, in the nursery with the boys.

"Papa!" Three-year-old Charlie shouted as his father came through the door and ran to be gathered up into a hug.

John picked up the boy and held him close for an instant before the boy's squirming gave the signal that he was ready to be put down and allowed to return to his blocks. Young Charlie, like his namesake Charles Bingley, generally went from one thing to thirty in a matter of minutes and couldn't yet be bothered to focus his attention on one activity or one person for very long. John placed him back on the floor and ran his fingers through his son's red curls affectionately before turning to the other bright haired person in the nursery. The sunlight streaming through the window lit up Arabella's auburn hair as she sat in the rocking chair and held their new baby.

"And how's our little Alexander this morning?" John asked as he walked over to the pair.

"He's napping," Arabella smiled softly at her husband. "Nurse says that I'm spoiling him rotten by holding him while he sleeps," she admitted sheepishly. "But I just don't want to place him in his cradle."

John smiled his understanding at Arabella. He had a difficult time relinquishing their new son to his cradle as well, preferring to admire the infant's dark hair and eyes that were already so like his own. The nurse that they had hired to look after the boys was an older woman who must have been used to less diligent parents who spent little time in the nursery. Not able to accept such a different kind of parent, Nurse frequently chastised Arabella for spending too much time in the nursery.

"Were you able to find Mr. Scoggins this morning?" Arabella questioned quietly as she continued to rock.

In general, Arabella believed that it was best if she didn't discuss with John his work or the contacts that he made as a part of his profession, but she couldn't help but have an interest in Tim Scoggins. She could easily remember the night when, half-desperate with worry, Tim had abandoned all sense of the proper distance that was always maintained between his own life and Barrow's and brought an unconscious and bleeding Bette Maberley to their door. Arabella, once she had heard all of Bette's story, was not able to maintain a proper sense of distance either. Arabella could trace too many similarities between herself and the young girl. Both had once worked in a shop, where they met and fell in love with young gentlemen who were filled with more charm than scruple. In Arabella's case, her particular young man quickly proposed marriage and -- once engaged -- expected a certain degree of compensation for such an offer. He left her soon after she gave in, sense of self-worth and reputation hardly intact.

Bette's situation had left her off much worse: she was pregnant when her own gentleman disappeared. She lost her position at the shop and then lost the child. Unable to secure another position, she had been forced into selling the one thing that she had left to sell.

On meeting Bette that night, Arabella had felt as if a somewhat skewed looking glass had been held up to her own history, showing her what might have easily happened to her. John had tried to refute such thoughts, but was not able to fully erase them from Arabella's mind. Arabella's distress over Bette's situation had been more than enough to secure her compassion and create a determination to help the girl heal.

Such interest couldn't be dismissed once Bette had regained her health and moved into a position with the Smith's in their shop! And so, when Seth and Mary mentioned the fact that they had seen Tim, Bette's very reluctant but supposedly loving suitor, at the back of their church instead of in a bench next to her, Arabella's curiosity was engaged. Arabella asked John to visit the girl at the shop the next day, where he had been puzzled by her strange change of subject and demeanor

It was Arabella who recognized the fact that Bette appeared to be sending Tim a message by the only means that she seemed to have at her disposal and suggested that John have a conversation with Tim on the next day.

"Yes," John admitted to having met Tim, while sighing with some exasperation. "I really don't know what's wrong with that man. I had to spell the meaning of Bette's message out for him, since he was either incapable of figuring it out on his own or just to belligerent to bother."

"But he eventually did get it, didn't he?" Arabella wanted to make sure.

"Yes, he did, but whether or not he'll act upon it is another story." John nearly growled in response.

"Well, you've done what you could for them," Arabella tried to soothe as John found a chair and placed it next to Arabella's rocker. "You've been very good to Tim."

John snorted loudly at that.

"And even if he doesn't know exactly how to express himself properly, I know that he has always appreciated your attention." Arabella went further.

John sighed. "That seems to be one of our problems," he admitted. "I think that Tim actually resents the fact that I haven't given him much attention lately. There haven't been any cases that have required his assistance."

"There haven't?"

"Not really," John said somewhat uncomfortably, "Most of the work hasn't called for his expertise and the ones that might have benefited from it have been worked on by Barton." John looked over at Arabella and tried to smile, but it was a sad effort. "Willie seems to be cultivating some of his own sources." Arabella's own expression mirrored John's own, which made him feel even more uncomfortable. "But that shouldn't matter to Tim! He gets paid whether we use him or not!"

"But what about his sense of importance and self-consequence?" Arabella inquired.

"Do you think that Tim actually worries about such things?" John asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "He certainly didn't when I first met him. He was more concerned about where he would find his next meal. He was simply pleased to be fed well for his information. He went nearly over the moon when I proposed keeping him on retainer!"

Arabella seemed to have difficulty imagining that. "In his own understated way, of course." John amended.

"And how long has he been in your employ, John?"

John had to consider that for a moment before he was able to give a correct reckoning. "Eight years come August."

"And you haven't expected the last eight years to have effected some change on him?" Arabella asked. "He's no longer the hungry boy who would work for food. I believe that he expects more."

"Well, what do you think that he expects, Arabella?" John mused. "A larger salary would seem odd considering the fact that his work load has dropped off."

"And he wouldn't appreciate such a patronizing gesture," Arabella shook her head. "You can't throw more work his way, can you?"

John considered that. "I could, but it wouldn't seem right to insist that Willie stop using his own sources. He has to learn the business on his own terms. To insist that he use Tim would make it appear as if I didn't have any trust in his ability to do his own work."

Now it was Arabella's turn to sigh. "What a dilemma. You can't give Tim the respect he craves without injuring Willie."

John shook his head, coming to the same conclusion. "I shouldn't have to arbitrate between the two of them," he said with some more exasperation.

Arabella glanced down at Little Alexander and then over at Charlie, now turning somersaults on his rug. "And do you not think that one of these days you shall have to arbitrate between your two sons? You're not being very forward thinking if you think that. Someday you'll be called upon to decide who gets to play with the favored toy or who gets to ride the pony first. What will you do then?"

"Purchase a second pony?" John said somewhat teasingly before returning to the difficulties before them. "But these are grown men and we aren't talking about pony rides."

"No," Arabella agreed. "This is much more weighty."

"This involves their livelihoods and sense of self worth." John admitted.

"And their relationships," Arabella added.

John looked over at his wife. "I suppose you mean Bette," he sighed.

"He knows that he can't support her on his current living, doesn't he?" Arabella said softly.

Chapter 4, Part 1

Posted on Wednesday, 9 February 2000

Despite Edward Linson's feelings of trepidation on entering London's social whirl, he found himself a week later grudgingly admitting that he was almost completely caught up by the activity of the season. He had honestly taken to this new business of making visits and being seen. In a seven days time, he had attended the opera once, been seen at the theater twice, and won at cards during three evening parties. He had frequently chosen to dine at his club rather than at home, in order to take better advantage of the acquaintanceships that could be cultivated there and made it a point not to refuse any invitation that did not conflict with something already on his calendar.

He was even considering hosting some sort of gathering on his own, but wasn't quite sure yet what that occasion might be or who should be invited to it. He wasn't even completely certain that anyone might accept his invitation if he actually did make it. He supposed that his relative wealth would ensure that he would not be embarrassed by a low attendance, but a residual insecurity made him cautious. He was self-possessed enough to realize that his behavior over the last year was a study in contradictions. While he knew that he had many good qualities that did recommend him well to new acquaintance, there still remained a degree of doubt in his mind. This degree of doubt reminded him again and again that his social skills were quite rusty after years spent alone on his plantation in the hills of Barbados. The doubting voice never failed to speak whenever he was alone; reminding him of the fact that no one would freely seek his company if it were not for his fortune. The pessimistic voice knew exactly what to say in order to lower Edward's opinion of himself; he was never fully able to believe that he was liked for something other than his title.

All of these thoughts assailed his mind as he drank his morning tea and tried to enjoy his solitary breakfast. Cooper, the young man that he had engaged last year to act as his valet and social secretary whenever he was in his London home, had brought the paper and his calendar for him to peruse as he ate his late meal. It appeared that he had agreed to attend a musical gathering that afternoon at the home of the Bingleys.

He was very glad to see it.

The Bingleys just happened to be his nearest neighbors of consequence in Yorkshire and even they were at a distance of nearly seven miles. Cheerful, well-mannered, and openly affectionate, Edward had been initially surprised to learn that the couple had been married for over seven years and had already been blessed with a son. He had originally supposed them to be newlyweds by their youthful appearance and playful way of speaking to each other. Charles and Jane--as they insisted Edward call them--were a model of happy fortune in marriage, the veritable epitome of wedded bliss. Edward was not sure if he liked to be in their company more for the sheer pleasure of their disarmingly easy manner or for the example that they provided him. When in their presence, one couldn't help but hope for the same fate. Edward hardly allowed himself to hope that he would find a wife who could be companion as well as confidante to him in the same manner that Jane Bingley appeared to be for Charles.

With that sober thought still ringing in his head, Edward finished his breakfast and walked back up to his room in order to consult with Cooper about his suit for the day. Not normally a fastidious dresser, Edward was quickly learning the importance of a complete wardrobe. It seemed that most of London found it easier to judge a man on his appearance, rather than his character or his actions. Edward didn't agree with that, but was learning enough to play by society's rules when necessary. And Cooper had proven himself to be indispensable in this area. He had already laid out Edward's favorite dark blue coat and was in the process of choosing between a cream colored waistcoat and a gray. To Edward's eye, either would have matched the coat, but Cooper's eye was more discerning. The man was a genius when it came to fashion.

It took nearly an hour for Edward to be pronounced properly suited--with the cream-colored vest chosen over the gray--and polished for the afternoon, but the extra time appeared worth it. His cravat impeccably tied and each strand of hair on his head was in place. Taking his carefully brushed hat in his white-gloved hand, he thanked his valet and walked out the door to his waiting carriage. He knew that it was not a long walk to the Bingley townhouse, but he preferred not to expose himself to those that might think him eccentric for walking when he could ride. And he also had heard that the livery of his coachmen was deemed to be quite attractive, as well as the equipage itself. He had decided to use this advantage whenever he could, realizing that there would be some at the party that would find this type of thing quite important and Edward was not above showing off if it might help him to a wife.

With that thought in his mind, Edward alighted from his carriage and made his way into the Bingley mansion. "My dear Edward," Jane Bingley held out her hand to him as he crossed the threshold of her home. "How wonderful to see you again!" Her smile was warm and genuine as she led him further into the hall. Edward couldn't help but be touched by the kindness of her greeting and by her willingness to single him out as a particular friend of herself and her husband. It was refreshing to find a couple so devoid of pretense. Jane was what she had been when they had met last fall, and Edward could only suppose that he would find her husband as unchanged.

"I was very glad to receive your invitation," Edward returned as he followed her.

"You are fond of music, then?" Jane asked, openly curious about his opinion as she led him into the drawing room.

"I know very little of it." Edward shook his head. "I have never had much opportunity to cultivate a taste for it." He turned to her and smiled. "I shall have to rely on your judgment to tell me whether what I hear is good."

"Oh! I'm sure that you can make such decisions for yourself," Jane disagreed charmingly. "I'm sure that your own ear knows what it likes."

"I am equally sure that my ear shall enjoy whatever it is that you shall play for us," Edward returned, just as kindly.

But Jane shook her head at that. "I'm afraid that I don't play."

"No?" That surprised Edward. "I thought that all young ladies were expected to learn how to play and sing.

"My family only expected those who showed an interest in music to learn how to play and sing," Jane replied. "Three of my sisters learned how to play. One of them quite well..." She stopped in mid explanation and looked down uncomfortably.

Edward wondered she was referring to her sister Mary. He could think of no other reason for Jane's sudden embarrassment, but the recollection that Edward had initially taken an interest in Mary and had seen it come to nothing. She had made another choice and he was ready to feel glad for her. Edward felt that it was only right to make Jane immediately aware of the fact that he had felt no lingering effects of his initial partiality towards her sister. "I'm sure that her new husband finds her musical ability quite useful in his church," he offered.

Jane looked relieved. "I believe that he does," she breathed. "In fact, I understand that he threatened to replace their organist with her on a regular basis, but she can't very well be expected to get behind the keyboard after the baby comes, now can she?"

It was a candid offering and one that wasn't expected. He hadn't known that she was with child. "Allow me to offer my congratulations," Edward attempted to recover quickly from his surprise.

Jane thanked him and gave him her assurance that she would give Mary his message. She then led him to the two remaining seats in the drawing room -- a pair of straight backed chairs placed against a wall not a great distance from the pianoforte. The vantage point would afford him a good view of the performers. He settled himself into the chair next to Jane as the rest of the company found their own seats and Charles led the first performer to the instrument.

"How is that you and Charles find yourselves in the role of musical patrons?" Edward leaned towards Jane and whispered.

"My sisters-in-law are also very accomplished musicians," Jane explained. "Miss Bingley," she gestured towards the first performer, now drawing off her gloves and laying them to one side, "enjoys these events very much and frequently agrees to open them." Jane gave him a small smile that looked almost rueful--as if she were embarrassed by her sister-in-law's willingness to always lead the way.

Edward looked over to the performer, fingers now poised over the keys. She was dark haired and elegantly dressed, her large headdress was complete with feathers fluttering over her sharp, almost bird-like features. Thin lines marked her forehead as she wrinkled up her brow in concentration. She was past the age when most ladies had given up their talent for the duties of supervising a household, yet still she played. Was it in the hope of finding a husband before it became too late to have a family?

Edward was pondering this as Miss Bingley smiled kindly towards the audience and began her piece. It was brilliantly noted, fast-paced, and overly loud. The sound of it overwhelmed the crowded room and spilled out into the hall. It was quite oppressive and Edward found that he could not like it. He glanced over at Jane and saw her wince as her sister-in-law began rhythmically pounding out the same dense chord. He didn't need Jane's opinion in order to pass judgment: his own ear could tell that, while it was difficult, it was not pleasing.

Charles had quietly made his way around the perimeter of the room and was now standing near his wife. "Caroline loves her mazurkas," he whispered, by way of an explanation. "I believe that she had another one in reserve just in case she is called to play again."

Jane's eyes widened and Edward found himself beginning to cringe. "Perhaps you should ask Grace Aintree to play next, before Caroline has a chance to act?" Jane suggested to her husband.

Grace Aintree? Edward started upon hearing her name. Miss Aintree was at the gathering? Glancing around the room, he searched for her face. He stopped himself from doing so not half a minute later, beginning to feel awkward and uncertain. Why should it matter to him if she were present or not? After a few moments of further reflection, he supposed that she might find it somewhat uncomfortable to meet with him again--their last meeting was rather embarrassing and he didn't wish to cause her pain. He began to scrutinize the audience again, his eye seeking her out so that he could avoid meeting her by chance. His efforts were in vain, however, he could not seem to locate her.

Charles, however, was moving towards the pianoforte again, seemingly in an attempt to put himself in good position to escort his sister away from the instrument at the end of her piece. Unfortunately, he had been overly hopeful in his estimation of the duration of the song. The mazurka seemed to have several separate sections and all seemed to be repeated. Charles stood uncomfortably at the ready for over twenty minutes and--had the sheer noise of the music allowed for it--Edward was sure that the monotony of the music would have put several of her listeners to sleep. As it was, the audience could only sit in eager longing for the moment of release.

Eventually, though not before Edward began to regret that he had accepted the Bingley's invitation, the piece ended. Edward thought that he could detect an audible sigh of relief that was barely concealed by the less-than-enthusiastic round of applause. Miss Bingley was able to make two very polished curtseys before Charles held out his hand to her. She took it only reluctantly and allowed herself to be led away.

Before they had taken many steps, it became evident that Charles meant to bring his sister over to Jane. Jane realized this as well and stood up to receive her. Edward had only a moment to stand and compose himself enough to compliment her as well, attempting to make his features look properly appreciative of Miss Bingley's musical offering and silently rehearse a few kind phrases that he hoped would sound sincere.

"Lord Rodale, may I present my sister, Miss Caroline Bingley?" Charles uttered a very hasty introduction. Miss Bingley smiled and held out her hand.

Edward took her hand and made a polite bow over it. Miss Bingley's smile widened and she raised her eyebrows, looking over at Jane as if to prompt her to continue the introduction. Miss Bingley seemed only to want to know a bit more about Lord Rodale before she could pronounce herself very pleased to make his acquaintance.

"Lord Rodale is our nearest neighbor in Yorkshire, Caroline," Jane explained somewhat cautiously.

"Is he?" Caroline responded in a voice laden with interest. "And how is it that neither you or Charles has ever spoken of this neighbor before?"

The intent of this question was very clear: A Lord Rodale--introduced at a party without a Lady Rodale--was a personage with whom an as yet unmarried Miss Bingley should have already been acquainted. The fact that neither her brother nor her sister-in-law had mentioned him to her might almost prove that they did not always have her best interests at heart.

Regardless of whether or not Charles and Jane had her best interest at heart when they forgot to inform her of their acquaintance of Lord Rodale, Caroline's mind never strayed. She always knew what was needed. She needed to find a suitable husband--as rich and consequential as possible--and she needed to find him soon. Miss Bingley's demeanor became instantly charming. "And are you fond of music, Lord Rodale?" she asked, smile widening. "And are you enjoying the concert thus far?"

Considering the fact that she was the only performer to have already played, Edward could only assume that she was searching for a compliment. He found himself reluctant to make one. The hurriedly rehearsed phrases that he had fashioned in his mind went unspoken. "I don't consider myself much of an expert on the subject, Miss Bingley," he allowed almost gravely.

"Oh!" Miss Bingley said, looking somewhat surprised and at a loss for a proper reply. He hadn't offered any praise that was to be accepted with demure gratitude and a modest expression. She seemed only momentarily daunted by that, however. "I'm sure that you shall have many opportunities to improve your knowledge of the subject while in London," she said. "Jane and I will host a few more musical afternoons during the rest of season and I will make it a point to inform you of them all!"

"And I shall make it a point to attend whenever I am not previously engaged," Edward returned, allowing himself an excuse for his future absence. He couldn't imagine sitting through many more of Miss Bingley's performances and didn't suppose that the musical offerings from the other musicians could make up for the oppressiveness of the first piece. In fact, Edward was attempting to think of a polite way of disengaging himself from Miss Bingley and making a quiet exit when the audience began to clap for the next performer. It was too late to do anything but resign himself to the fate of listening patiently through at least one other piece. He tried not to sigh as he turned back to Miss Bingley. "Would you care to sit?" he offered her the chair that he had vacated.

"Thank you," she accepted sweetly and settled herself in the seat, efficiently arranging her skirts so that they fell to best advantage. She placed her long fingered hands lightly in her lap. Edward, moving to stand against the wall next to her, watched the entire display with little interest. There was something careful and studied about Miss Bingley's manner--almost as if her every gesture had been selected in front of a glass just as one might choose a gown or a hat. And--like the gowns in a ladies' wardrobe--only those movements that had the right effect were kept.

But perhaps he was being too severe on Miss Bingley? Edward considered this as he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

The next performer started and Edward's attention was immediately directed to the piano. And there sat Miss Aintree. While he had been distracted by Miss Bingley's conversation, she must have been escorted to the piano. He recognized her now, even though her light brown hair was dressed much more simply--no tight ringlets pinned around her head or vibrantly hued gown. In fact, the gown that she wore today was rather pretty in its simplicity; there was no excessive display of lace or pearls at the neckline to capture the eye, just a crescent of cream colored satin centered between her rounded shoulders. She looked down at the keyboard and started her song--much calmer than the one that had preceded it and almost refreshing in its sedateness. It was quieter than the mazurka as well; Edward could almost imagine that he heard the audience collectively exhale. Jane had been right: with Miss Aintree at the piano, they could all relax.

And Miss Aintree seemed able to relax as well. Edward watched her features gentle as she went further into the music. A smile of quiet joy spread over her face as her hands moved tenderly over the keyboard. She seemed able to enjoy the song just as much as did her audience. Her long neck arched slowly in time with the music and a curl of her hair loosened itself from its pin and fell over her brow. Watching these small movements, Edward was struck by just how lovely she actually was. He wondered why had he not seen that before.

And then Edward realized that she was quite appropriately named: he had never seen anything move more gracefully than she.

The piece ended sooner than Edward wanted it to and the audience, though appreciative in their applause, could not seem to convince Miss Aintree to continue. She stood up awkwardly, one shoulder immediately dipping lower than the other as she turned away from the instrument.

And the illusion of grace was over.

Edward watched Charles slowly escort Miss Aintree away from the pianoforte, feeling sadder and more disappointed than he had in a long time. Her steps looked as painful as they were awkward. He wondered if walking hurt her. Unknowingly, he began to shake his head; something that Miss Bingley saw and thought she understood.

"Yes, it is quite sad, isn't it?" she commented quietly.

"What?" Edward asked in confusion, whispering down towards Miss Bingley.

"About Grace Aintree," she gestured over to the woman leaving the pianoforte. "You wouldn't know it by looking at her now, but she used to be one of the most pleasing ladies you could ever meet." Miss Bingley now added a sad shake of her own head. "And such a excellent dancer. But--as you can see--she's lost it all!"

Edward wanted to say something to refute this, but he couldn't think what.

Miss Bingley looked over at her sister-in-law and smiled generously before turning back to Edward. "Jane is always so considerate of Miss Aintree. There aren't many hostesses in London that would include her in gatherings such as these. But I find that Miss Aintree is always properly grateful for such an invitation."

Her comment bothered Edward immensely, but he wasn't exactly sure why. Perplexed, he wanted to ask Miss Bingley why she thought that the oblige was to be felt on only one side. Had Miss Aintree not offered her talent just as generously as Jane had offered her friendship? And had not that gift been very well received by the entire assembly?

"But then," Miss Bingley went on softly, seeming not to notice Edward's discomfort, "Jane has always been very sympathetic of those less fortunate." She added a small smile before continuing. "And so forward thinking as well! There was a time when such people we're kept at home and not thought fit to enjoy these types of cultural events."

Such people? The phrase grated on Edward. He didn't like to hear anyone spoken of in such a disparaging manner, but it went further than that. It seemed so ill-judged and wrongheaded, as if Miss Bingley did not have clear sight of the situation.

Her next comment proved to Edward that she did not. "Although it is surprising that she isn't a more accomplished musician," she whispered. "For what does she live for but to play?"

"A more accomplished musician?" Edward repeated, shocked. He had thought Miss Aintree quite accomplished.

"Oh, I realize that she performs adequately enough," Miss Bingley amended hastily, as she joined in the smattering of applause for the next performer, who was being seated at the pianoforte. "But without any real flair or style or sense for the dramatic," Miss Bingley stopped clapping and sighed deeply, as if accentuating her own theatrical abilities. "I must admit to some surprise in this regard," she whispered candidly as the next lady began her piece, "I would have assumed that the sad blows and disappointments that her life had dealt her would have instilled in her a greater ability to feel deeply. You'll find that your truly great artists have often suffered deeply."

Edward paid no attention to the next performer's offering, too busy wondering if Miss Bingley weren't equating an ability to feel deeply with a general tendency to wallow in despair. "What do you know of her troubles?" Edward returned under his breath and somewhat unnecessarily. It was quite clear to him that Miss Bingley had very little understanding of the hardships that Miss Aintree must face.

"You are right," Miss Bingley accepted, sounding surprisingly contrite. "I have been fortunate enough never to know the pain and suffering of such a damaging injury."

"Or the heartache of losing a fiancé, even one who happens to be fickle and weak." Edward added quickly and with a degree of disgust in his voice.

"One should not be too severe on Mr. Stanhope," Caroline defended quickly, "It's little wonder that her fiancé couldn't bear to continue their engagement after her mishap."

"Little wonder?" Edward asked, feeling some odd degree of bitterness start to rise from within. "I would have thought that a gentleman would have honored the commitment that he had made a lady." His voice surprised him as he responded, his terse expressions turning almost angry.

"Oh! But Lord Rodale," Miss Bingley negatived in an urgent whisper. "Only consider that she could barely move after the accident! She had to be confined to her bed for a year and some thought that she would never walk again!"

Never walk again? That was a daunting prospect, for her as well as for her fiancé. Edward found himself trying to discern what he would have done had he been in that man's shoes.

"And it was whispered that it was highly unlikely that she would have been able to..." Miss Bingley left off, as if recognizing that what she was to relate next was rather indelicate.

But Miss Tottenham hadn't been as worried of seeming indelicate, had she? Edward had already heard from her that it was hardly likely that Miss Aintree could ever bear children. Edward could see just how devastating that prospect would have been to a man who had any property. He could imagine how tormenting the idea of never having an heir might have been for her former fiancé. Indeed, he felt that torment right now as he thought of the urgency accompanying his avowed quest for a suitable wife. Would he have been able to continue an engagement to a woman who would not be able to give him children?

Edward could not be certain of his answer.

"So, what happened to Mr. Stanhope, then?" Edward asked, not exactly sure why he was allowing himself to be so curious. "Did he marry another?"

Miss Bingley shook her head. "No, he didn't."

Edward was puzzled by that and supposed that his expression must have shown it. "It is strange," Miss Bingley agreed. "He has remained in town all of these years, and even occasionally shows a certain partiality for one young lady or another, but--in the end--it comes to nothing. He seems to have no inclination towards becoming a husband. One might as well give up all hope and declare him an eternal bachelor." Miss Bingley looked away from Edward, glancing around the room until her eye located Miss Aintree, seated against the wall farthest from the entrance. Edward followed Miss Bingley's gaze and regarded her as well. Her mother and youngest sister sat next to her on a sofa. She seemed to have no idea that she was being spoken of. Her attention was focused completely on the performer at the instrument, a pleasant smile lighting up her face.

"I'm glad that she's enjoying herself," Miss Bingley commented to Edward once again, sighing deeply with regret. "The poor dear. She really does deserve our pity."

Pity, but not friendship, was to be Miss Aintree's lot in life, it seemed. The eternal maid, growing old alone, other ladies proudly thinking well of themselves if they invited her to their gatherings, always sympathetic, always sorry for her plight, but never glad to see her come. Edward heartily did feel sorry for her, but he was beginning to pity her not so much for her lameness, but more for the type of attention that had been bestowed on her since the accident. It had to be very hard to be pitied by ladies like Miss Bingley.

The performer finished her song and received a round of grateful applause. Edward watched as Miss Aintree clapped heartily, not at all reserved about expressing her appreciation for the music of her fellow performer. He had to smile at such wholehearted enthusiasm for another's piece; it was almost delightful to watch her enjoying herself so completely. He was sorry that he had not heard more of the music. Miss Bingley's conversation had consumed most of his attention. That lady, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, had finally started to clap rather ineffectually and stopped after a few moments, turning back to Edward as if to continue their whispered conversation through another performer's song, but Edward found himself unwilling to do so. He had grown tired of Miss Bingley and her conversation.

The next young lady began and Edward tried to pay greater attention to the music, but he found his gaze increasingly drawn to where Miss Aintree sat. She continued to listen in rapt silence, oblivious to the fact that she was being observed from across the room. For the life of him, Edward couldn't explain why he found himself watching her, wanting to look at her, pleased by the fact that she seemed to be enjoying the concert. He supposed that it was being driven by the same sense of pity that drove Jane and her sister-in-law to invite her to these gatherings. After all the sad things that had happened to her, wasn't it right that she should have some small pleasures in her life?

Yes, of course, that was right.

Chapter 4, Part 2

Posted on Saturday, 12 February 2000

The recital ended before Edward was able to discern whether it would be more generous of him to avoid meeting Miss Aintree during the reception or if he should seek her out in order to offer his appreciation of her performance. The memory of their aborted attempt to dance with each other during that ball the week before might give her greater embarrassment than any pleasure she might derive from his kind words.

Less difficult to discern was his opinion of Miss Bingley. He wished to be out of her presence as soon as possible.

But that was not what Miss Bingley had in mind for him. She appeared determined to keep this newly-discovered neighbor of her brother's in her sight for the rest of the afternoon. Standing up, she smiled at him expectantly and held out her arm ever so slightly, a tacit signal for him to escort her into the room where the refreshments had been laid. Edward grudgingly complied and allowed her to possessively place her hand in the crook of his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Miss Bingley gave a nearly triumphant smile to Jane as they passed by her. Edward had an expression for Jane as well and, while it wasn't nearly as cheerful, he hoped that it would be easily read. He wished for Jane to rescue him if she could.

A mass of people pressed around the table where the coffee and tea had been laid, leaving little room for others to pass around them. Looking not at all chagrined by a long wait, Miss Bingley suggested that they wait until the crowd had dispersed somewhat. "Would you like to see the rest of the house while we're waiting?" She offered as an alternative. "My brother and sister-in-law are not just musical enthusiasts, they have become patrons of the arts as well and have purchased several interesting works."

A personal tour of the house with Miss Bingley? Edward was not quite sure if he could endure that. "I thank you," Edward began, hesitantly. "But I have already seen the house."

"You've been here before, Lord Rodale?" Miss Bingley seemed very surprised by that--additional proof that her brother and sister had been hiding Edward from her--but was not yet put off completely.

"Yes, I have had the opportunity to dine with your brother and sister," Edward admitted uncomfortably, looking over Miss Bingley's head in the hopes of spying either Jane or Charles moving towards them. No rescuer seemed to be drawing near.

"Only once?" Miss Bingley was not daunted by Edward's lack of attention.

"No," Edward replied absently as he continued to scan the crowd for Jane or Charles or anyone else who could help him disengage himself from Miss Bingley. "Your brother and sister were kind enough to invite me on several occasions last year."

"Several!" Miss Bingley allowed her shock to show. "Last year!"

"Yes," Edward affirmed, not even bothering to ask her why she should be surprised. He knew the reason well enough and thought that it gave even greater weight to his hope that Jane or Charles might save him from their sister: they had already kept him protected from her for over a year. He looked down the hall eagerly, but did not see either of them moving near. Edward sighed, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands, and hope for the best. Was there no polite way of disentangling himself from Miss Bingley?

Just then, a slight tap to his shoulder made him turn around. And there stood Miss Aintree, smiling kindly, if a little uncertainly. "Lord Rodale," she said, biting her lip as she did so. "Forgive my impertinence, but I happened to see you standing here with Miss Bingley," she turned towards the lady and inclined her head, "and felt that I couldn't let the opportunity to pay my respects to you slip through my fingers."

"And I'm so glad that you didn't!" Edward said almost jovially, immediately taking her hand and returning her smile with a degree of relief. At least he was no longer alone in talking to Miss Bingley, who was now turning a very unbecoming shade of red and quite nearly glaring at the newcomer.

"I had no idea that you knew Miss Aintree, Lord Rodale," Miss Bingley looked rather nettled and, for a moment, Edward did feel guilty. He shouldn't have allowed Miss Bingley to run on as she did about 'poor Miss Aintree' and how much she should be pitied.

"We met at Mrs. Ashby's ball last week," Miss Aintree admitted, still looking somewhat uneasy, as if she did not often act so bold as to walk up to a man and claim an acquaintance. Edward was sure that her mother would have instructed her that a lady should allow the gentleman to do the seeking. He was very glad that she was willing to go against her mother's teachings in order to save him from being held captive for the rest of the party.

"A ball?" Miss Bingley said tersely, letting the question hang in the air.

"Yes," Edward agreed pointedly, still smiling, "I asked Miss Aintree to dance with me."

"Is that so?" Both of Miss Bingley's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she was not given the opportunity to make sense of that confusing matter for just at that moment a very tardy Charles Bingley interrupted their conversation. "Caroline," he said quietly to his sister after greeting the others. "I'm afraid that Jane needs to see you right away...something about cook making a fiasco out of the..."

"Oh no," Miss Bingley looked at her brother unhappily, "Please tell me that she didn't ruin the pastries!"

"Well, perhaps you'd better check on the situation." Charles nodded his head vigorously. "I'm not sure if Jane has the situation in hand. You know just how much she relies on your judgment."

Miss Bingley looked from Charles to Edward to Miss Aintree and back to Edward with a great deal of regret.

"It was lovely to meet you Miss Bingley," Edward bowed low. He couldn't help giving that little nudge to set her on her way. "Perhaps we'll meet again someday." He could actually say this while smiling, now that he was about to be rid of her.

Miss Bingley said nothing in return; she grudgingly moved down the hallway. Charles smiled briefly at both Edward and Miss Aintree and followed her, leaving the two of them alone.

"Well, I see that you didn't need my help after all," Miss Aintree said almost regretfully as she watched Charles leave the room with his sister. "I was sitting across the room and couldn't help but see how uncomfortable..."

"Your help was of great help," Edward negatived hurriedly. "As you can see, my other savior was a bit tardy in his assistance." He then fell silent, unsure of what to say next. He didn't want to make any further comments about Miss Bingley, but he wasn't sure what topic could be substituted.

Miss Aintree nodded her head to that and fell silent as well, mouth working nervously. "Well," she said, after a moment, "I suppose that I should let you get back to..."

"Oh no!" Edward exclaimed, somewhat shocked by the degree of determination he felt. He wanted their conversation to continue. "I'm glad that to have this opportunity to thank you for your performance," he rushed on quickly, afraid that she might leave if given the opportunity. "Your piece...it was quite lovely. I've never heard it before."

She smiled then, as if recalling the music. "Beethoven," she whispered.

"I've never heard it." Edward admitted.

"It's rather new," she said, wistfully.

"I'm sorry that we didn't have the opportunity to talk last week," he went on, rashly.

The smile on Miss Aintree's face disappeared quickly. "Yes," she said, "I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have played such a mean trick on you, but Mother..."

"It wasn't a mean trick," Edward shook his head emphatically. "I'm afraid that I am rather new to London and very out of practice with asking ladies to dance. I didn't mean to put you into a bind..."

"Mother should not have accepted for me," Miss Aintree said just as emphatically. "She knows that I can't dance."

"There are other ways of becoming acquainted," Edward added, "Not everyone needs to dance."

Miss Aintree's mouth began to work again, as if she didn't know how to interpret such kind words. Edward saw again how uncomfortable he was making her. "Perhaps, another time, we can spend a set not on the dance floor but engaged in conversation?" He suggested quietly, hoping that the suggestion wasn't too bold.

Miss Aintree looked up, "Perhaps," she considered, and Edward could see that she was trying not to look too hopeful as she said it. For his part, he felt as if a wall had been breached. Perhaps now they could become friends. Edward felt that he needed all the friends that he could get in London and something told him that the intelligent Miss Aintree actually was an acquaintance worth having. At least she had proven that she would not participate in the games that other young ladies in society seemed to play in the hopes of turning him into a husband. Her injury had made that quite moot. For all of her awkwardness at the dance--there was an honesty to Miss Aintree that the Miss Tottenhams and the Miss Bingleys could not emulate.

"If it isn't Edward Linson, as I live and breathe!" a gravelly voice interrupted from behind. Edward turned quickly and was met by a white haired, ruddy-cheeked gentleman wearing a brightly colored jacket and an overly tight waistcoat. It took him a few moments to recognize the man.

"Arthur Catton!" He exclaimed, taking the man's hand and shaking it vigorously. He was very surprised to see him. The former Colonel Catton had been a fellow planter on Barbados and his nearest neighbor in the mountainous countryside that was nearly as far inland as one could get from Bridgeport. The proximity of their plantations had helped them to cultivate a friendship despite the fact that they had very few common interests. "What are you doing in London, sir? I thought that you were still in Barbados!"

"Oh, we all need to get off that island now and again," Arthur Catton said jovially. "Or exchange one island for another at the very least!" He laughed heartily at his own joke before going on. "My wife and I are visiting England together."

"Your wife?" Edward didn't bother to hide his surprise. Arthur Catton had been a widower when he knew him. "You've married again?"

"Just last winter!" Catton chuckled at his friend's shock, now bringing the lady forward that Edward should have noticed earlier. She had been at Catton's side the entire time. "May I present Mrs. Catton to you? The former Mrs..."

"Oh! That old name doesn't signify now, does it?" Mrs. Catton interrupted her husband quickly and held out her hand to Edward.

He bowed over it and introduced Miss Aintree all while giving the new Mrs. Catton a longer glance. Her light brown eyes, looking out from under a little lace cap, confidently returned his stare. She smiled openly and Edward felt as if there was something familiar about her, but he couldn't imagine where he had seen her before. Ladies were very scarce on Barbados and those whom he did know were the wives of other planters. Those women who weren't wives were hardly able to be admitted into polite society. Edward couldn't think of any suitable unmarried lady in the West Indies and supposed that Colonel Catton must have met his bride in England. The new Mrs. Catton had a definite degree of refinement and poise that Edward was sure a few years of life in a far-flung colony would have wrung out completely; her elegant manner of dress bespoke a thorough knowledge of London fashion as well as a husband's ability to provide for her. He assumed that Captain Catton's plantation must be doing very well indeed.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Linson," Mrs. Catton said politely.

"Oh," blustered Captain Catton, "He's not Mr. Linson any longer, now are you Ed! I suppose everyone uses your proper title, eh Lord Rodale?" He chuckled to himself. "Only the prospect of inheriting his brother's title and fortune could have sent our Ed Linson back to soggy old England. Anything less simply wouldn't do. This man," he whispered confidentially to his new wife, "ran the best plantation on the island, no doubt about that. Always turned a healthy profit. Thunder and rain, plagues of insects, not even worker rebellions and uprisings could keep our Ed from harvesting enough to make growing cane worth his while."

Edward shook his head to that. He recalled many years when the plantation had not turned a profit, when he found himself bedeviled by all of the problems that Captain Catton had just listed, including a island-wide slave rebellion five years ago. He remembered that event vividly. He had watched helplessly as most of his crop burned to the ground. That had been the beginning of the end for Edward. Owning a human labor force was a difficult and distasteful proposition, but there was no other way to turn a profit from raising sugar cane in Barbados. And he had no other way of creating a living for himself but planting on his family's land in Barbados. Until Talbot had passed away, he had been stuck. He was sorry that his brother had died, but did not regret the fact that his death had given Edward the opportunity to return to sheep raising. It was much easier to take care of sheep than it was humans.

"But he's sold it all!" Captain Catton finished relating Edward's history and turned towards him. "How could you do it, Ed? A real investment like that? After all your hard work?"

"It would have been too difficult to keep my plantation in Barbados while farming in Yorkshire," Edward explained uncomfortably, a partial excuse.

"So, you've washed your hands of the island cane fields in favor of a bunch of Yorkshire sheep meadows?" Catton shook his head. "I can't say that I would make the same choice."

"It's a good thing, then, that you aren't me." Edward said somewhat pointedly and attempted to change the subject. "So, what brings you to England? A bridal tour?"

"No, no," Catton chuckled and shook his head to that. "My wife here will tell you that she's getting very little touring out of me. I was sent here by the other planters to talk a little sense into Parliament."

Edward could have laughed at that. Some things rarely change. He remembered well just how often his fellow planters would express displeasure with their government across the sea, how short-sighted the MPs seemed to be, how little they understood about the concerns of their far-flung colonies. And the governors sent to these colonies were not much better informed or sympathetic. He wasn't surprised that they had finally sent someone to lobby on their behalf. "And what has Parliament done this time?" He asked patiently.

"It's all this talk about abolition!" Catton said. "It's really beginning to get out of hand!"

"Really?" Edward had not been following Parliament very closely, but could see how any debate on this issue might frustrate and anger the growers. Their entire economic structure was based on the use of slave labor.

"Yes, really, Edward!" Catton affirmed. "They're letting themselves be influenced by all kinds of nonsensical creatures who know hardly anything about the situation and probably have never met an African in their entire life! The abolishment of slavery would ruin Barbados, absolutely ruin it and it is high time that someone stood up and said that to them!"

"And the growers elected you as their spokesman?" Edward was a bit surprised by that. Catton was not known as a persuasive man, nor was he very statesmanlike. In a discussion, he was more likely to shout down dissenting voices rather than employ reason or even tact. Edward was certain that he would not want to have Colonel Catton speaking on behalf of his own interests.

"They did," Catton said proudly, his chest rising just a bit higher as he said so. Then, he looked at Edward, eyes narrowing as if he were sizing him up. "You know, I could use your assistance," he said, almost conspiratorially. "One voice is always better than two and surely you have some contacts within Parliament that we could put to good use."

Edward hesitated, unsure how to extricate himself from this situation. While he still was interested in the well being of his former friends in Barbados and would hate to see them lose their livings through some act of a parliament who didn't have a full understanding of the situation, he could not imagine actually speaking for them. Perhaps it was the year that he had spent away from the island, but he was beginning to feel as if their way of working their lands was becoming less and less defendable. But he didn't wish to say that to Arthur Catton at this time! Especially at a party and with two ladies standing so near! He supposed that Mrs. Catton must have already heard her husband speak of such things, but he had no idea how Miss Aintree might respond. "I'm sure that the power of your own arguments will suffice," Edward said noncommittally. "Since I no longer own land there, I can no longer speak for her interests."

Catton looked as if he was hardly convinced by that and, for a moment, no one spoke. "Of course, Lord Rodale," Mrs. Catton broke the silence. "But perhaps you'll have dinner with us some time? I'm sure that my husband would enjoy an opportunity to reminisce."

Edward could do little but accept her kind offer. "Thank you, Mrs. Catton," he said, still feeling rather uncomfortable. "I shall look forward to it."

"As will I," Mrs. Catton returned with a smile, "I look forward to it." and, since there was little for her to say now that she had offered and he had accepted, she chose to place her hand on her husband's arm as if to lead him towards other acquaintances. Colonel Catton was more reluctant to leave, but grudgingly accepted that the discussion with Edward was over.

For the moment. "We'll talk further," Catton said as he walked away and Edward knew that he had not convinced yet his former friend of his intent to stay away from the issue. He watched as Colonel and Mrs. Catton made their way to the other side of the room where the refreshments had been laid.

"I didn't know that you were from Barbados," Miss Aintree claimed his attention again, voice sounding strained.

Edward turned towards her. "Yes," he admitted. "I grew sugar cane for the last eight years on the island."

"You...grew it?" Miss Aintree said, challengingly. "Don't you mean that your slaves grew the cane and you grew rich on the profits of their labor?"

With that, Edward realized that the lady had very decided opinions on the topic. Perhaps she even considered herself an abolitionist, but what did she know of it? What anyone in England really know of the matter? "If it weren't for my purchase of the land and all the materials necessary to the growing of sugar cane, not to mention my management of the entire process, no one would enjoy any profit from it." he said gratingly, "I suppose you do take sugar with your tea, never thinking to whom you owe the pleasure?"

Miss Aintree did begin to look somewhat unsettled by that.

"And over there," Edward continued, gesturing towards a table laden with sweet objects. "I don't suppose that you've abstained from the refreshments today?"

Miss Aintree glanced away and looked almost guilty.

"No, I see that you haven't thought of that." Edward said tersely. "Yet, you seem more than willing to deprive the world of sugar by ruining the system that provides it."

"Surely, another way could be found..." she began.

"You, obviously, have not looked at the problem very carefully, or else you might have already discovered that there are no easy substitutes for the current system," Edward began. "Would you be willing to pay a great deal more for your sugar so that we can all employ our laborers and give them a suitable wage?"

"I might," she spat back. "If it meant that no one had to live in such an inhuman manner under the management of cruel and tyrannical despots who don't care how much pain they have to inflict in order to make a profit."

Edward winced. That stung. "I can assure you, madam, that I was never cruel or tyrannical to my laborers," he said, attempting to keep his voice even.

"Yet you do admit to keeping people in your fields against their will?" Miss Aintree continued bitterly.

"You are putting too much stock in the idea of free will," Edward retorted. "There are not many in this world not chained by some circumstance. What about yourself? Can you leave your own situation? Of course not. You'd never be able to support yourself. We're all tethered in some way. At least we growers are honest about how we tie people to a place!"

For once, Miss Aintree could think of no comment with which to immediately respond. "Well, if you are so willing to defend the system of slavery, why didn't you agree to assist your friend in fighting it in Parliament?"

Edward wasn't quite sure himself. "It's no longer my fight," he said eventually. "I have no interest in the matter."

"No interest?" Miss Aintree said skeptically. "You can so easily walk away from the evil that you've done?"

Evil! Now that was going too far! Edward did not think of himself as an evil person. He was simply pragmatic, that's all. "You know nothing of my behavior towards my workers, yet you are willing to describe it as evil?" He asked, voice still registering his shock.

"I don't see how it could have been anything other than evil." Miss Aintree uttered in determined voice. "And you are a fool if you think that it was."

And, with that, she turned on one heel and began to hobble away, keeping her shoulders erect so that she made her exit with as much dignity as possible.

Chapter 5

Posted on Thursday, 17 February 2000

Bette saw that there would be no way to gracefully bound over the large puddle of mud as she alighted from the hack chaise and so chose to raise up her skirts and slide herself directly into it. She made a splash but, fortunately, the water wasn't deep at all and the pattens that she had tied onto the bottom of her shoes did an effective job of keeping her feet dry. She trudged out of the puddle and dropped her skirts, turning to wait for Robert to get out of the chaise as well.

Robert wasn't eager to follow. He was still in the carriage; large frame stooped to fit inside the doorframe of the hired rig. "Are you coming?" Bette questioned.

Robert Smith scowled, first glancing down at the watery road and then towards the gated entrance to Vauxhall Gardens. Bette gazed in that direction as well and saw that the tree leaves seemed to be glistening -- the drops of water were reflecting the afternoon light. Bette knew that the branches on those same trees would be sparkling from the light of nearly a thousand lamps later on in the evening and that it would look like a fairy land. But Robert had never seen that beauty and was not ready to appreciate it. "It's still very wet, Elizabeth." he said sulkily, not moving.

Bette forced down her annoyance at his reluctant behavior and tried to put on an encouraging expression. "It'll be lovely!" She trilled. "And we've come all this way!" she said, all the while wishing that it hadn't been necessary to drag Robert from Cheapside Lane, through most of Westminster and over the Thames to the pleasure garden at the southern end of London. It had been a very long and expensive drive and Robert Smith had used most of the time to make it quite clear to Bette that he didn't expect to enjoy himself. He need not have bothered: she was already fully aware of the fact that he was only accompanying her because she had her heart set on hearing the orchestra and he couldn't countenance seeing her disappointed. Robert knew just how much Bette loved the music of Mr. Handel and recognized just how sorry she had been when Martha and James had decided that yesterday's rain had soaked the ground too greatly to risk baby Frank's constitution and that they would not be going. Bette hated to take advantage of Robert's regard for her, but she couldn't think of any other way for her to be allowed to visit Vauxhall Gardens on that night. The Smiths would never have allowed her to go alone; their Miss Maberley was to be properly chaperoned at all times. They had lived in London long enough to know that it simply did not do for a young woman to walk out unaccompanied, regardless of how public the place was to be.

And Bette simply had to get there! There was a possibility that Tim just might have received her message through Mr. Barrow and understood it.

Bette looked back over at the still skeptical Robert Smith and saw just how much that man was regretting his earlier charity. Robert had an intense dislike of crowds and detested being made uncomfortable by the weather. She knew that he was not going to derive any pleasure from the musical evening. Music bored him. In fact it often put him to sleep -- especially after a large meal. And they were planning on partaking of the fare served in the small supper boxes next to the orchestra pavilion. Bette prayed that a hearty feast of Arrack punch, powdered beef or sandwiches made with ham sliced as thin as muslin, followed with wine-soaked syllabubs that she hoped would make the teetotaling Robert's head very heavy.

And then she would make good her escape.

Bette looked back over at the Gardens and the large number of cheerful people that were entering the gates. From their smiles and bursts of occasional laughter, Bette could tell that everyone seemed pleased to be visiting the gardens on that day. By the size of the crowd, Bette could well imagine that most of London was willing to brave the somewhat soggy conditions in order to be present on the opening of the Gardens' season. She felt a twinge of envy -- they all seemed so free of restraint! She believed that no lady in that crowd had to wait to be taken by a stubborn escort who couldn't even bear to get out of the carriage!

In frustration, she remembered her past visits to the Garden, escorted by the much more willing Tim Scoggins. They had visited just two summers ago, splurging scandalously, choosing to take a boat down the river instead of hiring a hackney cab to take them through the city. Tim certainly didn't share Robert's fear of the Thames or of music. He enjoyed the boat trip just as much as she did and he had sat patiently with her through the concerts, never once complaining about the length of the pieces. Tim was not a great lover of music, but knew when it was prudent to bide his time. And Bette had always rewarded him for his kindness later, after they had stayed late into the evening, waiting for the cascade to be turned on at nine and the fireworks to be set off at the close.

And there were always those dark walks at the edge of the park, the ones that were not nearly as well lit as the pavilions at the center. She remembered those dark walks well and prayed that Tim did as well.

Thinking over these more pleasant times at Vauxhall made her ache for Tim even more. She missed him, she missed him, she missed him. The last seven days without the hope of his frequent presence in her life had been some of the loneliest of her life. She had walked through her work at the shop in a daze, thinking that he might be coming to see her with every ring of the door's bell. But he hadn't come to visit and -- by Friday -- she had come to the conclusion that their last conversation had made a greater impact on Tim than she realized. She had grown quite desperate by the time that she saw Mr. Barrow walk in and chanced sending a message through Tim's employer.

Bette did realize that she was pinning her hopes for seeing Tim on a good deal more than just the shady nature of the walks in the park and that it would be a minor miracle if everything went as she had planned and Tim was able to find her that night. She knew that it was highly unlikely that John Barrow would even bother to mention to Tim that she and the Smiths planned to attend the concert in the Gardens on that night. And, even if he did manage to mention it, it was highly unlikely that Tim would understand that she was actually trying to send him a message to meet her there.

And everything hinged on the hope that Tim might have forgiven her enough to actually want to see her!

It was a tenuous plan at best, held together by threads of desire and desperation, but Bette couldn't think of another way to communicate with Tim. And even this meager plan was threatening to come crashing down by Robert's unwillingness to get out of that carriage!

"I think that it would be best if we came back some other day," Robert stated blandly. "Surely there will be other concerts this summer. And who knows if we will be able to find another hackney cab to take us back to Cheapside?"

"But there may not be another one that will feature Mr. Handel's music!" Bette felt herself grow frantic as she offered that ridiculous excuse. Of course there would be other times that the orchestra played Mr. Handel's work; there was a statue of the composer standing in the garden, for Heaven's sake! She didn't care. Robert was still not getting out of that chaise!

"Come," he said somewhat sternly, holding his out his hand to her. "I really think that it will be for the best. You might catch cold."

Bette hesitated for an instant before making her decision. She grasped his hand as if accepting his help back into the carriage. But, instead of allowing him to pull her back into the hack, she jerked him out of it, watching as one solid foot landed in the mud puddle.

"Elizabeth!" He shouted in frustration as the driver of the hack chaise called to the horses and set the cab in motion, taking with him the possibility of an easy retreat.

"Sorry Robert!" Bette called over her shoulder as she began to rush towards the entrance, joining the crowd as it pressed through the gates. Robert would have no choice but to follow her then.

And follow he did, buying one ticket for himself as he saw that Bette paid her own way into the park, catching up to Bette only after she was well inside the gate. "That was very wrong, Elizabeth," Robert said huffily, joining her on the promenade.

"My foot slipped," Bette chose to shrug in response as she continued her brisk pace towards the orchestral pavilion; she could hear the musicians warming up in the distance. Robert had to hurry in order to keep up with her.

"Your foot didn't slip," Robert growled in disbelief, but seemed to realize that there would be no convincing her now. "Must we walk so fast, Elizabeth?" He tried to slow her down by taking her arm and placing it through the crook made by his elbow. "They will still be there when we get to the pavilion."

"But they might have started by then," she offered a half explanation, not slowing, expecting him to both be able to keep up with her and understand that she wanted to hear the first piece in its entirety. They reached the edge of the pavilion and she closed her eyes in the near ecstasy of anticipation. Bette simply adored listening to music. It was a recent love of hers, but a very ardent one. When she was still working on her own, she used to enjoy waiting in the lobby of Covent Garden Theater more for the strains of melody that could be heard emanating from the concert hall than for the wealthy men that might just be encouraged to take full advantage of her charms. Unlike the other women who attended such evenings with her, Bette hated to see intermission come. It was at intermission that all those unprincipled young bucks would come pouring out of the theater, eager to chat with the women they intended to make conquests of later. To most, the theater was simply an accepted arena for sizing women up like livestock; to Bette it was one of the only places where she could be transported to another plane through sound.

It was obvious that Robert was not equally enamored of the experience. He was almost distracting as he shuffled around impatiently, feet not able to stand still for more than a minute. "Look," He petitioned after a minute, "Can't we at least find a supper box? I'm getting hungry."

Bette was glad to hear this and allowed him to lead her to one of the boxes adjacent to the pavilion. If her luck held, it wouldn't be long before he was snoring away to the sawing of the contrabasses and cellos. She sat down and refocused her attention on the musicians as Robert ordered sandwiches.

Mr. Smith did not disappoint. He had barely finished his food before his eyes closed shut and his mouth opened wide. The orchestra had just segued into one of the lullingly slower, middle movements and Bette spared no time in leaving. She felt that she had only until intermission to find Tim and speak with him. The lights were being lit as she hurried through the pavilion, making for the edge of the park and the still dark walks.

The color of the sky was deepening; changing imperceptibly until it was a very remarkable shade of blue. It was a blue that only skies fresh-washed by a soaking rain had a chance of achieving, requiring a clarity of air that was not often achieved in London. It was that color -- almost too dark to be called a blue, but much too vibrant to be called a black -- that matched Tim's eyes completely.

He had the most amazing eyes, didn't he?

In fact, Bette was so completely focused on the color of the sky and her thoughts of Tim as she walked into the secluded path and didn't hear someone approach until it had stopped directly behind her. "Bette," a familiar voice spoke softly.

"Tim!" Bette turned around, relieved and delighted all at once. She would have rushed towards him had she not first seen the hesitation present in his eyes. The familiar brightness had been replaced by a steely, guarded glint. He had chosen to come to the park that night, but he was still wary.

Bette didn't like seeing that and -- moreover -- she couldn't think of what reassurances to offer that might make it go away.

She stood apart from him, watching just as warily until it became more than she could take. He had been away for too long and she had used that time to allow herself to think the worst. She couldn't bear to remain apart for another instant. "I've missed you," The admission rushed out of her in one quick breath and -- all at once -- she found herself moving towards him.

He was there to catch her. Gathering her up into her arms, he held her very close. She couldn't even remember the last time that she had allowed him to hold her like this. Bette's fuzzy mind knew that it had to be before she had started to work for the Smith's shop, but it just didn't seem possible that it had been over a year since she had felt the familiar weight of Tim's chin as it rested on top of her head and the gentle pressure of his hands on her back. She sighed deeply, marveling at how wonderful it felt to be near him. How could she ever have given up this?

Had she been able to read Tim's thoughts at this moment, Bette would have discovered that they were of a complementary bent. He too had given up attempting to calculate the number of months since he had held her in this way and had moved onto the realization that there was something almost magical about her that made the wait for her almost worthwhile. She filled his senses entirely, leaving no room for other observations. All he could feel was the softness of her hair and all he could breathe was the scent of flowers that clung to her.

He might as well give up ever trying to replace her with someone else. And he had tried, hadn't he? He knew that Monday night's attempt to locate another companionable presence in his life could only be described as laughable. The unfortunate woman selected, whom Tim thought of as almost as pretty as Bette when viewed from a distance was not even comparable when seen close up. She was also not nearly as intelligent; she had nothing to say for herself. And he had discovered that she was too compliant, too willing to bend her thinking to his own. He hadn't been able to enjoy his time with her because he spent all of his time thinking of all the ways that she wasn't like his Bette.

Tim felt something deep inside of him burn strongly. He wanted her like he had never wanted anything before. Holding Bette again after so many months of separation made him certain that the only thing that he could do was to convince her to come home with him that night. He could no longer bear the separation. "Missed you too," he whispered into her hair.

"I was so afraid that you wouldn't..." she began, gulping slightly in an effort to compose herself.

"Fraid that I wouldn't understand yer message?" Tim chuckled slightly at that. "No, I remembered that my Bette woulda never fergotten the dark walks at Vaux'all and woulda never needed Barrow to describe em to her."

Bette felt like laughing herself, relieved. Tim knew her well, didn't he?

"But why'd ya 'ave ta bring Smith with ya today?"

At the sound of Robert's name, Bette cringed slightly and broke away from Tim. "How did you know that Robert was with me?" She asked cautiously.

"Oh," Tim began, almost glibly, rolling his eyes. "I saw it all. 'Ow ya had ta pull 'im outta the cab cause 'e wouldn't leave it on 'is own," Tim looked over at Bette sympathetically. "Poor dearie, 'e wouldn't come by riverboat? I know 'ow much ya like th' river."

Bette began to feel somewhat nettled by all of the watching that Tim must have done. Had he followed them the entire way?

"Ya know th' nice thing about them 'ackney coaches is that they 'ave a place in th' back fer hangers on."

So not only had he followed them, he had actually been traveling on the same carriage the entire time! Bette knew very well that most hack chaises were simply old equipages that had been discarded by the gentry -- old and worn, and with a no-longer necessary place for a footman to stand.

"An' ya actually paid fer yer own admission?" Tim went on, shaking his head. "I never made ya do that."

"No," Bette agreed. "But you didn't care that I was the one who bought the provisions for supper."

"Well, I always carried th' basket, didn't I?" Tim reminded. "And wot was wrong with yer basket today, might I ask? Are picnics not yer Mr. Smith's idea of fun?"

Bette didn't answer that. Picnics weren't Robert's idea of fun, but she wasn't going to tell Tim that.

It appeared that she didn't have to. He simply assumed it and went on. "'E doesn't like music either, does 'e?" Tim snorted. "Of course, 'e can't hear it right now, snorin' away like 'e is." He turned back to Bette and looked at her closely. "Why'd ya bring 'im with ya, Bette?" He asked again. "Couldn't ya 'ave come on yer own?" Bette continued to say nothing. "That's it, isn't it? Them Smiths won't let ya out of their sight, will they?

Bette sighed but remained mute.

"You must hate that," he continued on when Bette gave no response. "The Bette I know used ta love 'er walks around th' city, never 'aving ta answer ta anyone about them. Do you remember those walks, Bette?" He said almost challengingly.

Bette certainly did. She really missed being able to take those walks. She used to roam all through London on them -- going into different neighborhoods and caring not a whit if she were walking through a more fashionable district than she probably should. Mayfair, Berkeley Square and Grosvenor had become just as familiar to her as Cheapside and St. Giles and Holborn.

"An' ya never got lost, did ya?" Tim reminded, sounding almost admiring.

That was also the truth. Bette had been gifted with an innate sense of direction. Not even the greatest muddle of streets daunted her; she rather enjoyed the challenge. And she always managed to get home. But she hadn't had need to use that ability for months now.

"And now ya can't even run down the street without 'aving that young pup tagging along," Tim said, jerking his head in the direction where she had left Robert sleeping. "I'll bet this is the first time that 'e's 'ad ya out of 'is sights in more than a month."

Bette turned away, distressed. Tim's honest portrayal of how confining her life had become since last year was almost too much to bear. She hadn't realized just how limited, how restrained it all was. Robert really hadn't let her out of his sights for months now. And she almost never left the shop or their rooms above.

"Is it worth it, Bette?" Tim pressed, walking over to her and taking hold of her hand. "Is this wot ya wanted? Never getting a chance ta be who you are? Ya can't be yerself around them, can ya?"

"I'm still myself," Bette tried to protest, but she could hear that it was a weak effort.

"Are ya?" Tim probed further. "Are ya really?"

Bette tried to think of something to tell him that would prove that she really hadn't changed, but couldn't find anything. Everything that she had once valued had been packed away in an effort to become respectable. She had sacrificed her walks along with everything else that connected her to the life that she had once lived. She had changed her speech as quickly as she had changed her clothes and her way of dressing her hair. She was a proper young lady now; she even knew when to stay put.

"Yeah, they've got their Miss Elizabeth properly yoked, don't they?" Tim said and went on. "I hate 'ow 'e calls ya Elizabeth -- as if the name Bette isn't good enough fer him!" Tim looked back over at her again. "Is 'e really makin' ya happy, Bette?"

"He's a good man," Bette tried to defend.

"Oh yes, very good!" Tim scoffed. "But about as intrestin' as a box of rocks."

"Well, he may not be as interesting as some but he is intelligent."

"Doesn't act like 'e is." Tim went further. "Mebbe 'e keeps that box of rocks in 'is head where 'is brains should be."

"His mind is very sound," Elizabeth felt compelled to offer an example of Robert's prowess. "You should see how quickly he can add up figures! He does them in his head! He's always adding things up without paper or pen. In fact, he keeps the neatest ledger book on Cheapside Lane!"

"Ooh!" Such a feat did not impress Tim. He continued to roll his eyes disparagingly. "Just 'cause a man can add up some numbers in 'is 'ead doesn't prove that 'e's smart."

"Well!" Bette was beginning to be quite angry. "In addition," she stressed, almost intending the pun. "He speaks very well! Which is more than I can say for some people."

"Oh, I s'pose you mean me?" Tim continued to scoff. "Least I don't sound as if I'm pretendin' ta be summin' that I'm not!"

"Oh! I suppose that you mean me!" The idea that Tim would criticize her in this way made her very angry. "No, you just sound as if you're not even half as intelligent as you truly are!" Bette returned cruelly and without thought.

That comment brought Tim up short. Bette wished it unsaid almost immediately and watched as Tim's chin raised in defiance. His face a grim mask, he began to speak, tones softened considerably, every word separate from the others. "I suppose that you would think better of me if I spoke like this?"

"Wot?" Bette was stunned and lapsed back momentarily into the way that she used to round her vowels.

"Not 'wot', Elizabeth, it's 'what'," Tim angrily emphasized the word by punctuating every consonant. "What... if I spoke like this? Would pronouncing that word differently make me more intelligent?" Bette felt her mouth drop open in surprise but she remained speechless. "And would I seem smarter if I called you Elizabeth instead of Bette?" He paused before going on. "Or how about if I called you Miss Maberley? Would that do the trick? For that's all it would be -- a trick." He shook his head and looked away from her. "It certainly wouldn't change anything else about me."

"I didn't think that you could..." Bette began.

"You didn't think that I can ape my 'betters' just as well as you can?" He spoke that phrase with disdain laced in his voice.

"I'm not 'aping my betters'!" Bette returned.

"You aren't?" Tim shook his head in disbelief and went on. "That's most certainly what you're doing! They've convinced you that it's simply better to play by their rules and now you're following them to the letter. And you're not even considering all that you've lost in the process."

What I've lost?" Bette echoed.

"Your freedom," he returned quickly.

"My freedom."

"You miss it, don't you? Your freedom."

Bette couldn't respond to that. She missed it with all her heart.

You miss that just as much as you miss me." Tim struck another chord; she missed him too! "You don't have to, you know." Tim went on.

"Don't have to what?"

"Miss your freedom." He answered soberly. "Or miss me."

"How?"

"Come home with me tonight."

"Go home with you?" Bette repeated, unsure of what he was saying.

"Yes, Bette," He continued to hold onto her hand, oblivious to the fact that the figures of a few individuals at the end of the path were moving in their direction. Bette saw them though, a group of young bucks overly loud and confident, sure of themselves and their right to swagger around the park. They were quite distracting. "Come home with me." Tim reclaimed her attention.

Bette heard him clearly this time and turned to stare at him, stunned. Her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of what he was proposing.

"You'll 'ave yer independence back. Ya know that I never stepped on it." Tim dropped comfortably back into his own East End cant.

Bette remembered that well enough. Tim had never put any constraints on her, just as she never put any constraints on him. They had been free to walk in and out of each other's lives as they pleased.

But she wanted something more assured, more constant, more permanent. Would Tim be able to accept that? And -- if he were able to accept such a thought -- would he feel comfortable with that new role? Was he actually considering becoming a husband? Was that what he meant when he asked her to come home with him? In the light of the dimming sky, Bette tried to look closely into his eyes, attempting to read the meaning behind his proposal, but it was too dark to gather anything other than the fact that his gaze was steady and unblinking. She would have to gather the meaning from his spoken thoughts. All she could recall was when he reminded her that he had never stepped on her own independence.

That was not the thought of a man who was willing to turn into a husband, was it? She looked away from him, beginning to feel a degree of disappointment. But she shouldn't have been disappointed now, should she? She had already taken an honest look at their situation and had realized that Tim could not currently afford to keep her as a wife.

"Bette?" Tim tried to regain her attention, "Bette, wot are ya thinking?"

"What are you thinking, Tim?" Bette turned to him. "You know that can't go back to doing what I used to do."

"Ya wouldn't have ta." Tim began. "I'd take care of ya."

"How?" Bette challenged. It didn't seem as if he had thought this through. "The two of us living in that little room of yours at Mrs. Marchands?"

"Well, why not?" Tim defended. "Wouldn't ya prefer to share my bed than not 'ave anyone to hold ya at night? It was a cold winter, wasn't it, Bette?" Tim probed further. "Weren't ya cold at night with no one ta hold ya."

She had been cold. Cold and lonely. She had missed him terribly at night.

"It was cold for me too," Tim admitted. "Very cold. Almost unbearably cold." He looked into her eyes and said, in a tone that was at once beseeching and insistent. "Come 'ome with me, Bette. We can take care of each other."

Bette couldn't bear to focus her eyes back on his face. There was nothing that was worked out in his argument, but it was still strongly persuasive, something deep within her realized that she wanted nothing more than to go home with him that night.

"But what about Robert?" she asked.

"Can th' man not find 'is own way back?" Tim asked in exasperation, then bent closer to her, sensing that her resolve was starting to weaken. "'E wouldn't even know until we were gone. We'll be 'alfway down the river before 'e wakes up!"

Bette believed that he was correct in this assumption. He wouldn't know that she had left the park. And he'd never be able to find her in Tim's neighborhood.

Is that what she wanted? Did she want never to see Robert or the Smiths again? Or was it that she knew that she couldn't imagine ever seeing Tim again? And was that need stronger than her desire to be a respectable woman?

"Come home with me, Bette," Tim repeated, blue eyes steadfast and unblinking.

It was too much. She had missed him too much. She had to look away from him. If she didn't she was going to wind up agreeing to flee the park with him without another thought. And she had to keep her wits about her! As she looked away, the group of me who were fast approaching, arrested her gaze. They were a cheerfully boisterous bunch, loud and obnoxious. They sounded as if they had already taken too much liquor. Bette knew all too well how dangerous men could become when drunk. The man who had attacked her last year had been quite drunk, hadn't he? She tried to push that thought from her head, but she couldn't dismiss it. His leering features were clear in her mind. As was the way that he had swaggered into her room -- everything about his gait and bearing showing just how superior he felt himself to be. She had thought it seemed rather singular at the time, but it must be that he shared such a way of walking with other carelessly rich, young men. There was one man approaching who walked in just the same way.

Bette's eyes widened and her body began to go rigid before the thought even registered in her mind. It wasn't another man who walked in the same way -- it was him!

"Bette? Wot is it?" Tim's eyes moved in the direction of her gaze, noticing the group of men coming close. He was just in time to see one of them look in Bette's direction. He stopped, seeming to recognize her as an acquaintance, but one that he wouldn't bother to acknowledge. Instead, he just smiled with a smug confidence at her and moved on. Tim looked back over at Bette and saw that she had paled considerably. "Bette, do you know 'im?" Tim tried again.

Bette shuddered and tried to shake her head in negation, but Tim could not believe it. There could be only one person in all of London who produced such a change in Bette's demeanor. "That's the man, isn't it? That's the man who harmed you!"

Bette tried to deny it again, but Tim was no fool. He had already assumed correctly.

And might act on that assumption. He was already gazing intently at backs of the men.

"Stanhope, did you know that girl?" One of the man's companions clapped him on the back as they paced further down the walk. "I swear, you have the some of the oddest acquaintances. Where in the world did you pick that girl up? Certainly not at your mother's last ball."

"Stanhope?" Tim repeated to Bette.

"Tim, please," Bette tried to get control of the situation. "Don't do anything!"

"Don't do anythin'?" Tim nearly shouted back at her. "'Ow can you tell me not to do anythin'?"

"It's in the past," Bette attempted. "Please!"

"You're protecting 'im again!" Tim seethed, seeming to remember how she had never allowed herself to reveal the man's name to Tim.

"I'm trying to protect you!" Bette was near tears, knowing exactly what Tim was capable of. "Please, Tim, don't!"

Tim stopped protesting. He stood quietly and watched her, as if trying to figure out what to say next. "And I want ta protect you from men like 'im, Bette," he began to explain carefully. "Come 'ome with me tonight."

Bette shook her head quickly, she knew that there could be little protection in that offer. Regardless of what he professed, Tim would never be able to feed and house her and himself on what little money he earned from Barrow. She'd very soon find herself starting to work at the only thing that she could do besides shopkeeping. And she couldn't go back to that! "I can't, Tim. I won't!"

"You won't?" Tim repeated dully.

"I won't go back! I won't be preyed upon by men like that ever again!" Her vehemence took hold and made her sound even angrier. "I won't!"

And -- with that -- she turned away from Tim and began to walk back towards the orchestral pavilion where Robert Smith -- and respectability and safety -- was waiting for her. She didn't turn around when she heard Tim call her name, but she did hear when Tim turned himself and began to walk in the opposite direction. Had Bette been able to give it much thought, she would have realized that he wasn't moving away from her as much as he was resolutely following George Stanhope down the path he had walked.

Continued In Next Section