Frederick Wentworth had little use for dreams. Neither grand aspirations of future accomplishments, nor meddlesome, fantastical visions that deprived one of needed sleep piqued his interest.

Of the first he thought very little. Having your head in the clouds and wishing for a brilliant future would never replace personal exertions, sacrifice and the willingness to shed blood when necessary.

Of the second, he considered them all to be no more than a variant of the first, run riot. He had come to this opinion shortly after taking command of the Asp.

In a brilliantly coloured, heart-thumping dream, facing a frigate treble Asp's size, he manfully climbed to the tip of the foremast, boarding axe in hand, dagger between his teeth, jumping onto the deck of the enemy ship. He no more hit the boards but he was on his feet, hacking and slaying everyone in sight. The memory of it was embarrassing to him now and it was a laughable idea that after such a momentous leap he would have possessed more than a dozen uncrushed bones. Much less killing over one hundred men single-handedly. Having sole command of a ship, and working through the mundane and tiresome chores connected to that, soon pounded out of him the notion he could be such a super man. The only other dreams he had to fight involved the opposite sex. He never saw their faces, but more often than he cared to name, these cunning and provocative sleep thieves caused him to awaken physically frustrated and angry.

This morning he woke after a fitful night with neither pleasant visions of the future or decent night's rest.
The dancing at the Musgrove's had gone on very late. The elder couple had retired at an early hour, but not before ordering a generous collation be served so that all might renew themselves. By the time he and Sophy and the Admiral had reached Kellynch it was nearly two in the morning. After turning in, he only lightly dozed and dreamed constantly.

In the first dream all the ladies of Uppercross were dancing, but none of the gentlemen. In fact, he was certain he was the only gentleman present, and that he was merely an observer and not allowed to dance. This seemed to go on for a long time, but when he woke and looked at the clock barely, an hour had passed. The next dream began the same way, but this time all the ladies were Miss Louisa or Miss Henrietta. There seemed to be dozens of women, but no matter which face he looked into, only one of the two sisters smiled back at him. This dream did continue a while. Upon awaking the hands of the clock had moved an hour and a half's worth.

The most exasperating part of these dreams was that Anne Elliot played the music he heard in the background.
In life one could suspect that a certain thing was true. In dreams you knew to the core of your being that something was true, even without the slightest bit of support. He saw no face, he saw no instrument, but he knew the fingers that played the notes.

After putting some order to his scattered thoughts, he got up, looked out the window, took a drink of water and returned to his bed. "Enough of this," he muttered. His body ached for real sleep and as he settled himself, he gratefully reminded himself that he would not required to rise early to duty or shooting or anything of consequence.

Out of the blissful nothing, he became aware of her presence. His dream eyes were closed but he knew there was no one else to see. She encompassed him little by little. A laugh, the thrill of her hand in his, the warmth of her next to him when they rode in his brother's gig; it was all made manifest in her presence. He gave into the sights and sounds and sensations of their short, barren engagement.
It all stopped and there was nothing but her again.
Her lips were insistent, though soft and gentle as they kissed him the first time. As she continued he could not help but respond in kind. His were equally resolute in their exploration of her. He wished to reach out and touch her soft cheeks and neck; take her hair down and feel the silken strands caress his hands. Most of all, he longed to take her in his arms and pulling her into his chest, make her part of himself. But, there was no holding or touching in any way save the kisses.

The sweetness went on and on. The frustration went on and on as well. She was just out of his grasp and there was no relief. Each touch of her lips became its own delightful, taunting agony.

Feeling her move away, cool air troubled his lips left warm by her touch.

He could now, in the dream, open his eyes. The scene that greeted him was of Anne, moving farther and farther from him. Her expression was passive. She was neither glad to leave him, nor did she plead for him to help her stay. He could not even be sure the look was directed at him. Soon she vanished completely into whiteness and he awoke.
Staring at the gathered fabric forming the canopy over the bed, their orderly, symmetric folds stood in stark contrast to his ragged breathing and blighted pleasure. But it was not the reaction of his body that was the worst; it was the deep and abiding disappointment that greeted him. He'd not felt it so deeply in years and this morning it felt for all the world like he'd had the breath knocked out of him.
It was not the first time this spectral Anne had visited him. The very first time he fell asleep after she broke their engagement, this was the dream that manifest. The first few months after leaving Somerset this dream had followed him. It diminished with time. But regardless how few the occurrences, it was a bitter waking.

Just then, the door opened and the clanking of pail and shovel let him know the Andiron Maiden was arrived.
The same girl daily cleaned his hearth and laid the morning fire. She was just a little thing, with shocking red hair shooting from under her cap. For a day or two he had thought of her as the Iron Maiden, for she made as much noise as he imagined that medieval torture device was capable. To his way of thinking, being awakened by such a din was decidedly a form of torture. But, his kinder nature rose when he watched her one day and decided that she was trying her hardest to do the job well. It was difficult to think ill of the child when she would clank and then scold the pail. It was then he determined the banging and scraping sounded akin to a discordant concerto of the hearth, and decided her to be a conductress worthy of a more benign title.

Finally, the fire was blazing and she was leaving with her little shovel, and pail of ashes, clanking merrily by her side.

She must have other talents valuable to the running of a country home, he thought.

Closing his eyes, knowing the futility of it, he allowed himself to drift back into the dream. Just as the delight of her was reestablished, the door opened and the smell of coffee told him Harkness was arrived.

She vanished immediately with no impassive fading away and, though the scent of the brew was delicious, and he considered whether a simple flogging or the more barbarous keelhauling would be an appropriate punishment for the interruption.

It's your own fault Frederick, you didn't tell him to wait for a ring. Idiot.

The man ordering hot water poured into the basin followed the sound of the tray being set on the table. The sluicing of the water was overlaid by the sound of the first of the curtains sliding open. The room brightened
noticeably. "Leave them," he said. The sound of the rings on the rod accompanied the returning darkness. There was a moment of silence.

The distinctive ting of crockery touching ended the water pouring. Hushed whispers followed. Footsteps to the door could be heard.

"Shall I pour you a cup, sir?"

"No. Not now."

"Shall I leave, sir?"

"Please do."

There was silence after the door clicked shut.

Try as he might, the dream and the agreeable feelings it had engendered would not return. Just as she invaded his mind and upset the inconstant peace he worked so relentlessly to maintain, Harkness had broken the spell with his coffee and hot water.

The dream was depressing for it was a vivid reminder of how she had used him, and then moved coldly away from him. It would seem that in nearly nine years, nothing had changed.
He rose, determined to be doing something. Remaining abed, brooding was not his way and would not become so now. While shaving he downed coffee, then finished dressing.

Fastening his stock he lectured himself on self-discipline and the importance of taking command of one's mind. He suspicioned the lecture would become a regular part of his dressing regimen seeing that, short of leaving the area, the small and unvaried society of Uppercross and Kellynch would afford him no means of avoiding her company. Becoming inured to her would continue be a trial, but one worth winning.

Suddenly he was famished. The late dinner and the collation at midnight convinced his stomach that it should be full constantly. The breaking of his fast that morning would be most welcome.

The effects of the Uppercross dinner lessened over the passing days. The patterns of the Kellynch household took firmer hold on each of the members. Particularly in the morning. The Admiral, and his sister took advantage of every morning to walk and ride over the territory that was theirs by lease. He thought it amusing that two people who so loved the sea could suddenly become expert in sheep and trees and broken down fences. On mornings when they took out the gig, they cut even a wider swath and came away with more land born understanding to add to the trove.

As for him, he was invited to Uppercross often and he took advantage of it. Kellynch-hall, without his family, was a gaudily furnished mausoleum full of anger and resentment and regret. There were spectres at play and it was clear one of them could harass him anytime she chose. During his waking hours, the portrait presented him with thorny reminder of Anne in her prime and the returned dream brought her near even in his sleep. He would not give any others a chance at him while awake. Uppercross was free of such troubling associations. Its only connections to him were of good meals shared with people who respected him for his accomplishments and demanded nothing of him other than his company and stories of the wider world.

With this in mind, a few mornings after the dinner, Wentworth waved away his brother-in-law and sister and headed to the Great House. The lane to Uppercross was becoming quite familiar to him. Already he was marking trees and bushes changing colour or losing more of their leaves from day to day. Soon the weather would turn cold; though he thought walks would not be complicated by snow before the new year. This reminded him he was making no plans to leave for Edward's. It would take several days to travel to Shropshire and he should at least make inquiries about transportation. He was curious to meet with his brother after so long, and to meet his new sister-in-law, but the pull to stay at Kellynch went deeper. It was certain there would be no problem staying as long as he liked. The Admiral and Sophia were glad of his company, and he enjoyed them as well. Everything was to his liking; as long as his sister was not too adamant about his intentions concerning the Musgrove ladies.

He was sure Edward would understand if he were to put him off for another fortnight, or perhaps another few months. How anxious could the newlyweds really be to have a bachelor brother insinuating himself into the midst of their marital bliss? He could think of very few things that would be less appealing to himself.

The old style house came into view and all the previous thoughts left him. At one of the windows, surrounded by the sweep of the brocade curtains, he could see Miss Louisa looking out for him. Spotting him, her pleasant face widened into a welcoming smile. She waved then disappeared. He had to admit to his own vanity; it was nigh on impossible to resist the lure of Uppercross and its insistence that he make himself at home.

Returning to Kellynch after dinner with the Musgrove's was not quite the chore it usually was. That day he had been introduced to Charles Hayter, the much spoken of, never before seen cousin from a nearby property called Winthrop.
The young man was civil enough in the beginning. Quiet, but polite when introduced. Wentworth was informed by Miss Henrietta he was a curate, and that it was the fondest hope of the family he would be offered a curacy in Uppercross Parish, as there was not presently one in effect. There was something of embarrassment in her manner when the young man said nothing for himself and left her sister to relate his present circumstances.

Wentworth spoke to the young man, saying his brother, once a curate as well, was now a rector in Shropshire and seemed quite content in his parish.

"The young squeaker has nothing to recommend himself to me. He had nearly nothing to say, and that which he did say seemed particularly contentious when direct towards Miss Musgrove. I realize they are family, but even a blood connexions does not excuse such bad manners." His gladness at leaving the presence of Mr. Hayter was tempered by having to take his port and a game of chess in the Bower Room.

His sister stood behind her husband and as the Admiral made a move for his bishop, she touched his back with her fan. His hand floated above the board for a moment until it hovered over the most advantageous move. She then said, "All the Hayters seem to be a bit odd and unfashionable. From what I understand, he is the most liberal of them all. He is a scholar and has quite ambitious plans for himself. Or so says his aunt."
With the two of them on one side, the Captain knew he was dished and began to hasten the demise of his little black army. "Even so, I had the distinct impression that he was angry with me. Why I cannot say as this was my first meeting with him."

"Too many women," said the Admiral. "There are so many women in those two families that a man can't be certain when he'll say something that will ruffle all the feathers and he's in the soup. Never good for a man to have to watch his words so carefully."

"I cannot believe that you truly think that." Sophia tapped him smartly on the shoulder with the fan and took a seat by the fire. "I think that most wars prove it is men who would do well to be more circumspect in their utterings." She looked first at the fire, then back to her husband.

The Admiral winked at his brother-in-law. "Oh, now my dear, you just proved my point exactly."

Wentworth laughed quietly. Were he to say such a thing, his sister would cheerfully shy the fan at him, most likely hitting him with it as she had a deadly aim. It mattered not as the two of them were now bantering gaily, without a hint of rancor.

It went on for a moment more when she noticed her brother's amusement.

"And why do you laugh, Frederick?"

Sliding his queen to a vulnerable position, he said, "If I were to observe, without knowing the two of you as well as I do, I would be amazed that you are married. How you ever made it past being merely acquainted, I shall never know."
The Admiral checkmated him.

"Yes, that is a very old puzzle, Frederick; why it is only certain men and women, when becoming acquainted, chuze to become more deeply involved."

There was something about her words and in their tone that unsettled him.

He watched as the chessboard was regrouped, listening to her shifting in her seat. It seemed that sleeping or waking, speaking or keeping silent, it was impossible for him to avoid being hounded.

"We have no more than to look right here in this very house. Perhaps you can say why it is that upon meeting not one, but two good humoured, unaffected girls, you have obviously chosen to pursue knowing them better. But, when it comes to being reacquainted with the likes of a young woman such as Miss Anne Elliot, nothing. Nothing at all on your part."

She finished her speech and he realized they were locked in a stare.

Perhaps it was that he felt like the irresponsible baby brother again. The feelings swelling in his bosom were nearly the same when she'd asked why he took a biscuit without permission, or if he had hidden the pieces of a broken bit of crockery. It was a wonder how she was able to take a man who, with skill commanded other men, one who personally fought bravely for his King, and who possessed an independent fortune, and reduce him to a boy not yet out of leading strings.

When a ready answer was not at hand, he had learnt it was always best to keep quiet, but buy some time. He rose and refilled his glass, waving away the footman. Feeling the answer was resolving he took a drink. The words began to order themselves as he put down his glass.

Now that he knew his tack, he took his time drawing a chair closer to his sister's side. It was almost a pleasure to think of laying it all out for her.

Stretching out his legs, he balanced the heel of one boot on the toe of the other. "Well, my dear sister, are you now ready to hear the sad business that leads up to my reacquaintance with Miss Elliot?"

"Certainly, Frederick, we would be most interested in hearing about this affair from the very beginning." Both their expressions agreed with her words. He could not be certain whether her choice of words was an unfortunate mistake or a calculated turn of phrase.

For a moment he considered telling all.

In the day-to-day business of living, particularly on land, it was his sister who saw to the mundane practicalities of the Croft's joint life. If asked, she would surely know to the last penny how much the butcher was owed; which of the servants were to be trusted, and on a prorated basis how much they were to pay in taxes for the year. Above that, he thought, in her knowledge of sailing, she was capable of taking command were the unthinkable to happen to her husband. (This of course was a private amusement, which he never shared with anyone.) And yet, though she was as practical as any man, she possessed the most tender of hearts.

She often lamented Edward's single state, and wishes that he would find a good woman to share his life. He assumed that she stated the same to him concerning the Captain.

As for the Admiral, in his opinion, there was no finer material for a husband than a good decent man of the sea and he would more than sympathize with a young, self-assured officer rejected by those ignorant and unappreciative of the ways of the navy.

To have the support of two such people would have made the initial blow more tolerable he thought. To have their support now…

Rather than entangle himself further, he gave a sketch of the meeting between Anne Elliot and him in the year '06. It was matter-of-fact and to-the-point. He did not care for dredging up the past, but he knew he must give them some details.

When he finished the brief history, she asked, "And there was nothing more to it? A few dances and then a loss of interest on both your parts?" He was not certain she believed him.

"It is difficult to lose something you never had." He could not help considering the difference between a sin of omission and one of commission.

"You were not interested in Miss Elliot. Not in the slightest?"

"Sophy, I was staying with the curate of a parish smaller than that of Kellynch, she was the daughter of the manor. The hand was dealt before I came to the county."

"But as I recall, in the year '06, you were fresh from Domingo and all over the papers. I'm sure that counted for something with the ladies," the Admiral smiled.

Frederick nodded. "It did indeed, sir. With some." Oh that he'd set a better watch over his words that evening with the Musgroves. This slip of the tongue was growing into a monster and he would be glad when he finally hit upon the excuse that would slay it once and for all.

"You are sure there was no interference from anyone? Edward perhaps?"

It was odd that she would think to name their brother, not to mention troublesome. To date, the good Reverend had said nothing significant about that summer. But would he withstand questioning? A little truth would sound plausible just now. "He was not pleased with any ideas I might entertain in her direction. It would be overreaching my station, he thought."

"So he did think there was something developing."

The woman was relentless. She should be at the Old Bailey. It was certain that neither the cleverest pickpocket, nor the most heartless murderer could withstand her questioning, he thought. "He did not express it in so many words. It was more his looks, and his tone when I would enquire about certain young women. The man can say a lot without uttering a word."

She had to agree on that point.

"There was nothing to it, Sophia. You know how it is, we were introduced as a matter of form and then I went my way and she hers. You can't really think that any Elliot would pay the slightest bit of attention to a lowly lieutenant. Even in the wilds of Somersetshire."

"Certainly not the eldest daughter, but the second is a different kind of woman all together."

"Yes, she is, and I think you can see by her behaviour that she has no desire to see the acquaintance elevated to its former intensity. She is civil and no more." He turned away and cursed his own choice of words. If G-d were smiling that evening, she would not notice.

"What I see is grave civility on both your parts. It strikes me odd how two former acquaintances, no matter how insignificant the association might have been, are both so disinterested when you yourself say there was an 'intensity' to the relationship."

At this rate we will be seeing the sunrise, he thought. Turning back, he said, "To be quite honest, I did have a little more to do with Anne Elliot than I let on to the Musgroves." Before his sister could ask any questions as to how much they had to do with one another, he continued. "We were acquainted over some time. The usual things, cards, dances. We got on very well it seemed."

"And you came to care for one another very much." It was not a question.

To tell her would be a relief. To tell her would be to admit his own failure in love.

"Early on in the acquaintance, I had an opportunity to dine here, at the Hall, and there was a neighbour in attendance. She took an immediate dislike to me. Her being Anne Elliot's godmother, she used her influence and saw to it that I was not very much welcome after that. And, as you can see, things are not changed."

"Might that be Lady Russell?" she asked. "She's the woman who lives in the Lodge," she explained to the Admiral.

"Ah, I see you know the lay of the land. Yes, that neighbour would be Lady Russell." The name still could not be said without a tone of derision.

He could see his sister thinking. The Admiral interjected: "Well, then the woman did Miss Anne a great disservice. There would have been nothing unequal about such an alliance. You came out of Domingo quite well as I recall. The payout on your prize was handsome. The girl could have done much worse than what you had to offer."

He'd come out of Domingo well, prize wise, but by the time he'd landed under his brother's roof most of it was gone. He had little to show for it besides two newly made uniforms, one dress and one undress and the custom made boots he wore that very night. And, shortly after, when he'd made Commander, it had been a trick to trade the uniforms around for just one proper outfit of that rank. Anne could have done worse, but the cold light of his own foolishness was difficult to avoid.

"That is true, dear. But I think we should put ourselves in the place of our neighbour. If she is the godmother of a girl with no mother, she has to be extraordinarily scrupulous in looking out for her interests. And while you and I might be amenable to a young lieutenant looking in the direction of a young woman we have interest in, someone not familiar with our ways might not be so broad-minded."

While he was nettled that his own sister seemed to be taking the side of the woman, he could see her mind was at work on questions of the past. The present would just have to sort itself out later.

He determined that a calculated retreat was in order.

Rising, he stowed his glass and approached his sister. "I am tired and off to bed, Sophy." Kissing her cheek, he nodded to the Admiral. She caught his hand as he moved away.

"Frederick, might there be some chance?"

The sympathy he calculated was there in spades. She chaffed the top of his hand while she grasped it with the other. "Anything?"

He knelt by her chair. There was nothing but truth on his mind.

"Sophy, I think it best that Miss Anne would be the one to determine what she feels about the past. And so far, I think it fair to say she thinks nothing of it."

Her smile was taut as she patted his hand. Again the "good nights" were said and he left them.

The door closed and he stopped in the muted light of the hallway. He hadn't meant to, but he thought how he might have stumbled on the absolute truth. Anne's scrupulously proper dealings with him, the dream, his partial confession to his sister all served to convince him that she did not care.

Wentworth rallied in the morning and giving a last thought to the evening before, consigned it to the dust heap. He enjoyed the walk to Uppercross the next morning, and was not bothered in least when, to that walk, was added another half a mile to meet the Miss Musgroves who were visiting their sister-in-law at the Cottage.

"I will show myself in, thank you," he said to the maid. He was becoming as much a fixture a the younger Musgrove's home, and was treated nearly like the family.

Entering the drawing-room he anticipated the ladies and Mrs. Charles, but found only Miss Anne tending the boy, who lay on the sofa.

When she saw him she stopped in the midst of the room. Being in company with her, alone, with no one but the boy to divert the interaction between them, was startling. He paused in the doorway. "I thought the Miss Musgroves had been here—Mrs. Musgrove told me I should find them here."

"They are up stairs with my sister—they will be down in a few moments, I dare say." She motioned vaguely towards the stairway and gave him an even more vague curtsey.

He nodded and decided to take up a post at the nearest window. Now that I've arrived, she'll be out of here like a shot, he thought.

"Aunt Anne, I want you."

Her shoes tapped across the floor to her small charge. Wentworth leant against the window's frame, turning slightly that he might watch her. She sat on the sofa and helped the boy with a plaything that was not working. Struggling with it for a moment, he thought to approach and offer his assistance, but whatever the malfunction righted itself in short order and she handed it back. The child was talkative and she staid close. Taking the opportunity to be useful, she began to pick up blocks and play figures that littered the floor.

As she was about her work, she glanced up and caught him watching.

She stopped and watched him as well. For a moment, there was no little boy, no young ladies upstairs, no time between them. There was only a kind young woman who once loved him. Her cheeks reddened and she went to a small box and emptied the toys from her apron.

Quickly he regained his composure as well, and said, "I hope the little boy is better." Turning back to the window he heard the child summon her back to his side. Again he watched as she knelt beside the sofa.

She talked quietly, but with energy, occasionally reaching up to brush aside a stray lock of his hair, or straighten the blanket covering him. It was clear she cared greatly for him and that she was not merely a disinterested attendant. This is why she staid home the night he'd hurt himself, and this is why she had sent his mother on to the Great House. She, unlike her sister, cared more for him and his injury than she cared for meeting a newcomer to the neighbourhood. But, since he was really no stranger to her, the child's well being had outweighed his presence.

This was why she would sit with him in the night. There was nothing aside from natural affection for a little boy who needed her. At this revelation, he could not be but a bit ashamed of his grand notion that she used the boy's fall as a convenient excuse to avoid being in company with him.

There were voices at the door and the sound of steps entering the room. Turning fully he saw it was Charles Hayter.

"How do you do? Will not you sit down? The others will be down presently," Anne said, getting to her feet.

The younger man merely nodded and motioned for Anne to remain next to the boy.

He was determined not to allow their meeting the previous day to be his sole impress of the young man. Miss Louisa, and particularly Miss Henrietta, had taken great pains to explain their cousin's circumstances of a distant parish and too much time spent studying and not enough resting as the reason for his discourtesy. "He works so hard to improve himself that, I fear he has destroyed any chance he has for your good opinion," Miss Henrietta had said.

The man was young and had acted impulsively. Certainly, he above all men could understand the desire for improvement. From Edward's descriptions, he knew Hayter had chosen a hard occupation. The Church was a place where one misstep with the wrong person could demolish any hope of increase and so he would take this opportunity to show him how a gentleman ought to conduct himself. Besides, under the circumstances, he would welcome any new face to the room.

Wentworth stepped forward and was about to greet him when the fellow placed himself next to the small table, in the chair furthest out of the way, and promptly opened a newspaper. It was clear he wished no conversation, or anything else the Captain had to offer.

So, that is how you want it, he thought. Returning to his post at the window, he held his breath and listened carefully, hoping to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It was clear the only rescue from this awkward company was either to make his excuses and walk out, or hold fast and pray a swift completion to the ladies' business.

He had just put aside his serious consideration of flight, and was removing his gloves and coat when the door from an adjoining room opened. Through the opening there appeared a boy a bit smaller than little Charles. And this would be young master Walter, he thought. The little man planted his feet solidly and looked very pointedly at Wentworth for a second or two. The door behind him closed by an unseen hand and the Captain could not help but suspect the boy had become a nuisance elsewhere in the house and was being sent off to the only person who could make him behave.

He smiled at him, and gave him a demi-salute, but the child's expression changed not at all. He then looked towards his cousin behind the newsprint curtain, then to the sofa. Charging towards it, clearly he had determined the company of his aunt and brother was the most favourable source of the amusement.

"What is he eating?" the boy asked, even before he reached his aunt.

"Charles has nothing to eat. Besides, you just finished breakfast, Walter."

Owing to the unfriendly response, Wentworth took an immediate dislike to the child. He was somewhat baffled as he was usually a favourite with children. While he was not precisely "Uncle" to Harville's children, they were not in the least hesitant when it came to sitting on him, or fingering his gold braid or stretching the bullions on his epaulettes. More than once Mrs. Harville had taken his coat away and returned with the tiny golden cords put back in fine naval order. In truth, visiting with Harville's family was a pleasure, thought it never failed to remind him that he had no wife and children of his own.

"But he has something there," Walter said, as he began to pull at his brother.

Anne took the boy's hands and placed them at his side. "Charles has nothing. But you may play with the blocks or perhaps the little boat." She reached into the box, where the other toys had been placed, and took out a little wooden ship with two masts complete with small sails. The boy took it, held it out to his brother, and then snatching it away before Charles could take it, Walter threw it to the floor.

"Walter. You are being very unkind to your brother." On her knees, she made her way to the boat and took it up. She glanced his way, and then went back to the boys.

The boy's obvious lack of enthusiasm for things naval definitely reinforced Wentworth's dislike. He earnestly hoped he was not so petty as to despise a child merely for bearing the name of a buffoonish grandsire, but he suspected that he was burdening the child with the sins of the Baronet. Just then, the little urchin turned his attentions away from his brother.

He first took his aunt's arm and kept a tight hold of it. When she extracted him, he encircled his arms around her neck. He got away with it for a moment by placing a fat, and what sounded to be a wet kiss on her cheek. "I love you Auntie Anne," he said.

She smiled and replied, "I love you too, Walter, but you must let me go. I can't tend your brother like this."

Wentworth too smiled. It was easy to see this was precisely the child's plan. The little beggar was giggling with delight. He knew he'd hit upon a winning strategy to have his, and his brother's share of his aunt's attention.

She nearly got him away when he then managed to climb onto her back. The child was of a fair size and Wentworth could see that his weight bowed her down.

"Walter, get down this moment. You are extremely troublesome. I am very angry with you." Reaching back, she tried to grasp a hold of him, but his plump legs bent and flexed just out of her reach.

It was obvious little Walter Musgrove neither cared about being troublesome, nor did he care that he was making his aunt angry. To his credit, he was far too young to be considering that he might hurt her. Glancing at the cousin, he saw little activity. The paper was moving, but there seemed to be no assistance from that quarter. Though it was none of his affair, he was about to intervene when the paper rattled to the table and Hayter said, "Walter, why do you not do as you are bid? Do not you hear your aunt speak? Come to me, Walter, come to cousin Charles."

And why do you not take some action to help her, he thought. The child was deaf to the voice of his cousin and did nothing but tighten his hold. Before giving it any real consideration, he took the few steps and was looking down on the whole miserable scene.

At first he thought it a simple matter to scoop the child up and take him off to the far side of the room. As the boy realized what was happening, a struggle began. Sliding his hand under the boy's belly, and gently grasping his shoulder, Wentworth lifted. In all the shifting, his fingers had gotten caught up in her apron strings, and besides, the little squeaker refused to let go of her. Carefully disentangling his fingers, he then reached around to his Walter's little hands and, with a little prodding, unwrapped them from around her neck. To his dismay, the chubby little fists were sticky. Moreover, he couldn't help but touch the soft skin of her face and neck as he worked. A lock of her hair that had gone astray in the tumble, it caressed his wrist. Soon the boy was loose and he was able to grasp him by the trousers and lifted him away.

A lock of her hair that had gone astray in the tumble, it caressed his wrist.

Walter made a lunge to get away but Wentworth held him more tightly to his chest. He tried to twist and struggle down, but strong arms trapped him, and quickly he surrendered.

He looked over at the sofa where Anne hanged over little Charles. Now that his little captive was calmer, he thought the properest course would be to offer her a hand up. Instead, he thought Hayter manful, and hopefully mannered enough for the task. He was disappointed, but not surprised, when over Anne's voice, he heard, "You ought to have minded me, Walter; I told you not to teaze your aunt."

Save your breath to cool your porridge, young man, Wentworth thought. Turning his attention to the boy, he said, "You are a naughty one, aren't you? I cannot determine whom you most favor, your puffed-up grandfather or your embarrassment of an uncle. I see them both so clearly.” He knew the child was too young to understand his words, but he was not too young to understand that grasping a man's neck cloth and giving it a ferocious yank was not to be tolerated.

"Oh, isn't that wonderful? The Captain is becoming acquainted with little Walter." Mrs. Musgrove's voice carried over all the other sounds in the room. He looked over to see the ladies coming to him and the boy.

"Charles, you are come too," Miss Louisa said as she noticed the man at the table. Miss Henrietta looked at him and then quickly away.

"Excuse me, Mary," Miss Elliot interrupted, "but you will have to see to little Charles. I must fetch something from my room." Her expression was indiscernible to him, and she moved away without looking to the right or left.

Mrs. Musgrove glanced back at the boy on the sofa, then took the hand of her youngest son. Quickly letting go, she said, "I am not in the least surprised, Captain, that you are drawn to little Walter. I love my children equally. But I must confess I see much more of the Elliot character, and countenance, in my youngest."

There had been no thanks when he rescued her from the child. No words of credit or appreciation had passed her lips. Not that he wanted, or expected any. But now, as she knelt her, her eyes looked nowhere but to him and the look of gratitude was inescapable. Giving the toy a gentle push, she rose, passed into the next room and receded into the shadows as she pulled the door closed.

So, this was her life. Caring for the children of others while they carried on unencumbered. Playing the tune so that others might dance. Anne Elliot was bound to her family, and those around her, by a strong sense of duty and obligation. And, as long as she kept to these duties and obligations, she was assured of the good opinions of all in her circle. It was fortunate there was no interest on his part, for he could never persuade her away from her slavish existence. Yes, he was fortunate indeed.

Out of the blue, the boy lunged and cried, "Mama," distracting him from his thoughts.

Glad to be rid of his squirming burden, he said, "Madam, I assure you that I see not only yourself in the boy, but a great deal of his forbearers.” As he spoke he hoisted the child over to his mother. She had no choice but to take him, sticky hands and all. Fetching his gloves and coat, he looked around and was glad all the ladies were occupied and had not paid any heed to his comment. He could not escape the thought, had Anne been present she would have understood his equivocation perfectly.