Wentworth stepped out of the inn and looked around Monkford. The only reason for the village’s existence was its sitting at a crossroads. There was neither a moving body of water on which to build a mill, nor any natural sheltering geography to keep an enemy at bay. Like so many other places, it had sprung up to suit a need in its time, but now had little purpose and resisted the usual withering away that all created things are prone.

There was very little he recognised. As none of the buildings appeared to be recently built, the fault must be his youthful lack of observation. A man of three and twenty years had no care for a crumbling village and noticed only enough to make possible his traveling to other places. Now he wished he’d been more observant, having only an hour before the coach left the station, he wished to find the cottage he had shared with his brother in the summer of the year ’06.

The cottage had been nearly on the doorstep of the church, though, at times, the bell tolling sounded as if it was right inside with them. Locating the spire, he once more checked his watch and began walking in its direction.

As he passed through the village, he was surprised that the place was actually rather pretty. He did not recall this from his summer in the area and mused that, no doubt, there were other things he had failed to see back then.

Veering from the main street, he took a well-worn path that kept the spire directly before him.

He had been on land long enough that walking any distance on the hard ground no longer bothered him and this made it pleasant to walk beneath trees again. Though turning russet and no longer green, their rustling in the breeze and fresh scent cheered him. Had it really been so many years since he listened to bird song? In the past eight years, he’d been no more than a mile or two away from the sea and a change of scene was refreshing. It will be good to be deep in the country again, he thought, now that he had come to a sort of peace concerning Anne Elliot.

When he had read his brother’s letter a few weeks earlier, he had thought a curse was laid upon him. It was difficult not to give over to a sailor’s natural superstition; to believe all the recent unbidden thoughts of Miss Elliot were some sort of evil omen and that Edward’s letter was their confirmation.

His brother’s letter was full of jests about the supreme irony of Admiral Croft, and his sister, wanting to live a more genteel life, finding and letting Kellynch-hall. And, how it was a man of the navy; that service that had done so much to bring men of ability, but no pedigree, to prominence; and who was now to haul the old despot’s fat from the fires of financial embarrassment. Having heard none of the news from his sister, the letter was a terrible shock and full of assumptions. The most obvious of which being that Frederick knew about the letting of Kellynch-hall in the first place.

The letter telling him about the Crofts new living arrangements arrived the following day and filled in blanks spots left by Edward’s.

It had also irrevocably closed a door that had looked to be opening. 

Arriving at the church, he surveyed it with dismay. The faint breeze ruffled disorderly shrubs while in a nearby flowerbed, the dead heads of some sort of yellow flower bobbed. Cobbles leading to the door were ringed with tufts of grass that pushed them this way and that. Splits in the door’s black paint showed the silver grey of long exposed wood.

It was disappointing to see the once tidy place in such a slovenly condition. It caused the same little ach he felt viewing an old ship that he had known in better times.

A tidy expanse of lawn, which had separated the church from the cottage, was gone and replaced with a lush green field of knee-deep grass. There was no cottage in sight.

“What do you want?”

Frederick was startled and annoyed he had not noticed the older gentleman approaching.

“I was looking for a cottage that stood here some years ago.” Observing a collar, he added, “The curate at the time lived there. Edward Wentworth.”

The man paused, leant on his cane and began to think. Shaking his head, he said, “No, no Edward Wentworth.”

“Perhaps he was before your time.”

The bent body straightened as much as possible and a defiant look came over him. “I will have you know, I have been the vicar of Monkford for twenty-seven years.” The rheumy eyes of faded blue were as fierce as such an old man could muster.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I meant no offense.” That summer, he’d only put himself in the way of meeting the vicar once and that had come just after his arrival. To his embarrassment, this man did not seem in the least familiar and he could not for the life of him remember his name.

The wrinkled face softened at the apology. “Ah, I am sorry. This morning has been far too rushed and has put me in a bad humour.” A bit of smeared egg on his cassock seemed to confirm the statement.

The vicar began to walk away, then turned. “Regardless, I remember no curate, no Wentworth.”

“He was here in the year ’06. I stayed with him for a summer and was curious to see the place.”

Nodding, the vicar said, “Him I have no memory of, but the cottage I remember.” Pointing towards an overgrown thicket, adrift in the field, “It stood over there. It was the primary residence for the incumbent, but my wife disliked it being so close to the wood. We moved closer to the inn.” As an afterthought, he said, “And now we live with my daughter.”

Frederick surmised that living with the daughter might explain his bad humour. Before he could ask what happened to the cottage, the old man continued. “The place was falling down, but came a fellow one day and wanted to buy it. No one was occupying it, so I sold it to him. He come and took it down and away bit by bit.” The old man was still for a moment, looking over the field. Frederick imagined the far away look was his mind’s eye observing the area’s alterations.

“I remember a small orchard. There were several apple trees.”

“Aye, the fruit was very good. Particularly after the gardener pruned them properly. Older fellow, now he did live in the cottage. As I recall, he stayed for a quite some time.”

Frederick smiled. He suspected “the gardener” to be Edward. The whole of that summer, whenever he wanted to speak with his brother, if there was daylight or a strong lantern available, the man was out-of-doors. He had worked up a small vegetable garden, to which he was always amending the poor soil with various sorts of manure lugged in by wheelbarrow.   Armed with leather gloves he endeavoured to resurrect some bedraggled rose bushes with judicious pruning. His proudest accomplishment was the apple trees.

The tiresome story went that early in the year, during an icy rain, he had carefully pruned every one, and during flowering, he had carefully chosen only the choicest blooms to remain on the limbs. Then, when the captain was visiting, they were setting their fruit and every walk through them was full of plucking and snipping and lopping. It was under one of them he had told Edward he had proposed to Anne Elliot.

Edward had left home when Frederick was only a baby, but returned over a decade later when their parents died. The age between them was so great, and Edward playing father to Frederick for a couple of years, until he went to sea at fourteen meant, they never fought like other brothers. But that hot, summer evening was a grand exception.

“Is there anything else I can do for you? I have my duties in the church.” The vicar looked perturbed, like he might have repeated himself.

“Uh, no,” he said, a little startled, but grateful for the interruption. “Though, might I stay and have a look around?”

The old man turned to go to the church, nodding his ascent. Frederick held his breath as the man tottered up the stairs, took forever to unlock the door and then disappeared into the gloom of the building. As he looked back over the field, the warm autumn sun urged him to remove his coat. Carefully draping it over his arm, with an unexpected sadness, he realised that everything to do with the cottage, and that summer, was gone.

A wall separating the property from the next house was broken down in places. All the trees were gone, leaving little hillocks where they were pulled out of the ground. The weeds were higher in a rectangle of ground and he suspected this to be the place where the garden had been. The only thing left was a large flat stone he figured was what remained of the entry.

Standing on the stone he remembered feeling quite smug when he entered the cottage for the first time. It was small and he felt quite large from his foreign victories. Everything inside had been shabby and he was gleaming in his new uniform and polished Hessian boots, which all together took up no little sum of his prize money. All that was left now was a faint outline of the foundation and fading wildflowers dotting the overgrown grass. A mouse darting away emphasised the neglect. The only ones inhabiting this place now were those who used the web of animal trails running through the space.

He walked over to the wall. There was a stile, indicating that at one time there had been good relations between the neighbours. As he replaced one of the steps that had broken lose, he counted the bells tolling from the church. There was still time to look around before walking back to the inn. Lightly tapping the step into place, he tried to remember a story Edward had told him about the stile. Something about a slow-witted fellow in the neighbourhood raiding his trees. Wishing now that he had listened more closely, he made his way through the deep weeds to the place the apples trees had stood.

He had been grateful for the vicar’s intrusion, but without trying to divert it, his mind went easily back to the argument.

There wasn’t much to it in reality. As it came more clearly to his mind, in the very spot where it took place, he owned his share of the harsh words. But it was Edward’s sense that dogged him this afternoon.

“…I think Anne Elliot is a splendid young woman…”

“…have you stopped to consider how the Baronet will react to this proposal…”

“…of course I think you worthy of her…”

“…you have undervalued the power the Lady Russell exerts over the entire Elliot household…”

“… I do wish to see you happy…”

Being in high spirits when he confided the news to his brother, he had expected Edward’s unqualified joy. When he received words of caution he had become angry and took the words of warning as interference. As the conversation continued he had even accused Edward of caring more for his living and position in the community than Frederick’s future happiness.

“’Living and position in the community,’” Frederick said under his breath. Leaning on an undamaged portion of the wall, he was embarrassed to remember his ridiculous behaviour.

“The dear man had every right to point out my rash expectations and the reality of the situation. He had every right to fear for his position.”

The stones of the wall began to shift and he stood.

Certainly he loved Anne in a way he’d never cared for a woman before, or since, but honour now compelled him to admit, before he even set foot in Kellynch-hall to talk to her father, he had gotten a perverse pleasure from the notion of forcing the preening peacock to acknowledge his position, his worth and his excellent prospects.

Catching a head of the ripening tall grass, he began to pull off the seeds. “Edward’s biggest offence was offering me nothing to feed my vanity.” He tossed the stripped stalk. “What headstrong dolt wants a liberal dose of practicality and good sense?” he asked the field.

In the beginning of the conversation, there had been only one attempt to dissuade him.

“Of course I consider Anne Elliot to be a splendid young woman, but good God, Brother, can’t you fall in love with a woman of your own class? We have nothing as a family to recommend us to anyone of their station.”

When that had been answered with a vigorous rejection, the curate had done his best to warn of the obstacles that would be placed in his way.

“I don’t suppose you have stopped to consider how the Baronet will react to this proposal. Her best interest is the least of his worries. I am sorry to say that you are not important enough for his tastes…” While it was a fact that their father was completely disinterested in their well being, to the point of violence, his own sanguine nature blinded him to the idea that such a sweet-tempered woman could have sprung from the loins of such an ill-bred “gentleman” as Sir Walter.

At that point in the conversation, for some inexplicable reason, he had put forth that Lady Russell would champion him and his suit. “…you need only enter the room and the woman is agitated. You have refused to go out of your way to curry her favour, and I think you perhaps enjoy shocking the old girl. You have put aside the Lady Russell’s opinion at your own peril, Frederick. You have undervalued the power the Lady Russell exerts over the entire Elliot household I’m afraid…” Edward had been right and he knew it. He nursed a hope through the night that it was indeed his brother who had miscalculated things.

The final word had been about Anne herself.

“I know I am merely a curate, but I am no fool. I have observed these people for nearly a year and I think I know them, and their ways, a bit better than you. I have no doubt you love her, Frederick.  I also do not doubt she has feelings for you. I do wish to see you happy, but Anne Elliot is not the sort of woman who would be coaxed into an elopement. Nor should you try.”

The argument ended there. He thought his brother was being a coward, a man ridiculous and too afraid to reach out for happiness. He on the other hand had proven that risk and satisfaction went hand-in-hand.

Saying nothing to Anne about the miserable reaction of his brother, they decided to wait a day or two before his going to Sir Walter. Meanwhile, their time together had been a wonder to him.

Never before had anyone placed him so high in his or her regard. And never had anyone stirred in him such feelings of attachment and devotion. All her looks and words enforced the belief that she loved him and that nothing could come between them. He would move heaven and earth to keep her by his side. And he was just arrogant enough to believe he could.

“Ah, there you are, Captain. It’s a good thing somebody saw you head off this way. We need to be pushing on now,” the driver called from the edge of the field. “The weather’s been a bit cool at night and the snakes come out in the short grass right soon after the sun’s up,” he added.

Frederick waved an acknowledgement and the driver started back.

“It’s only fitting,” he muttered, as he made his way along. “A garden. Apples. Snakes.”

His longer strides caught him up to the driver in short order and he was informed that he would no longer be alone in the coach. “Two local ladies. They’re harmless enough.” The remark struck him as less than promising.

If he was to be in the presence of ladies, he thought it best to appear clothed properly and he slipped on his coat. Involuntarily, he reached back to flip his clubbed tail out of the way. Blast, he wondered, will I never learn it’s gone?

The ladies had taken his seat for the past several legs of the journey, and were chatting to themselves.

“Mrs. Chawleigh, Mrs. Crow, this here is Captain Wentworth.  He’ll be travellin’ with you to the area of Kellynch. We’re a little late, so don’t be alarmed as I try to make up the time.” He slammed the door and the coach shook as he mounted.

The ladies smiled as he nodded an acknowledgement. The older of the two, the driver had been slack in differentiating between Mrs. Chawleigh and Mrs. Crow, ventured to speak: “Well now, a captain. That is a rank of real responsibility. I have a nephew in a regiment in the north and he is forever sayin’ how the captains are the backbone of the army.”

The younger woman leant close and spoke into the other’s ear. Wentworth was certain she said something to the effect the nephew had said “backside.” While he loathed agreeing with a lobster on any point, it was an opinion of which he could find no fault.

“I’m sure your nephew would know better, for I am a captain in the Royal Navy.”

Each lady’s eyes widened and he anticipated the usual naïve questions that as a rule followed this disclosure. He would politely engage them for a few moments, then, reaching for a newspaper left on the seat by a previous passenger, he would beg their indulgence and bury himself behind its pages.

When each emitted an “oh” that was less than enthusiastic, he was a bit shocked. It was not the customary response of those on land, particularly ladies.

“Well, I suppose riding in boats is enjoyable enough, and that the navy has its compensations.” The ladies smiled and nodded in unison.

Then the younger offered, “I am sure it was exciting to see the Emperor.”

Again he was puzzled, and just as he was about to ask for an explanation, the elder said, “The papers and such say he is amazingly short. Is he really such a little man?” Both leant slightly forward in anticipation of his answer.

He had seen this before in those ignorant of the Navy. Many had a notion that all the ships in the entire Navy sailed the seas as one large armada and that they all took part in every battle and hence, knew every bit of gossip.

“Uh, I have no idea. I have never seen the Emperor Bonaparte. I was on a mission far west in the Atlantic when he was captured.”

The information excited nothing more than a glum, “Oh,” from each of them as they sank back into their seat.

It was time to retreat to the safety of the paper. “If you ladies will excuse me. I think I will catch up on my reading.”

"…and so I set her straight, I did. A rector's wife's got no business puttin' on airs and the such. 'Another new dress,' I said. And her reply was that her mother had sent her enough for the dress and the bonnet as well. I told her, bein' the wife of a deacon myself, that her lack of humility was a bad example and that it would reflect poorly on her husband should word get back to the bishop." 

The conversation between the two women had gone on, without pause for a breath, since Monkford. Wentworth was mortified to admit, but the two fascinated him and using the paper as a blind, he had been observing them closely since heading out.

He was finally able to name the two. The older woman was Deacon Chawleigh's wife. Her name escaped him as her companion, Margaret, the wife of Mr. Crow, a merchant in Misterton, never called her by her Christian name. In fact, Deacon Chawleigh's wife's companion was left with precious little to say as Mrs. Chawleigh rattled on and on about the concerns of the church Alter group, the Misterton Alliance of Businesses and Merchants, her daughter, Betsy, the woman's six children—who had all the appeal of a half-dozen hungry hellions in a barrel. The worst of Mrs. Chawleigh's complaints were directed at Betsy's husband, and they were too numerous to keep account of. 

After glancing through a story in the paper concerning a local trial, which was characterized as sensational, he determined that life in small English villages was no different than life aboard a King’s ship. Both featured gossip and backbiting, merriment and times of crisis. The only difference seemed to be the lack of women in the one.

The carriage jostled to a stop. "Crewkerne," called the driver. The riders up top haloo’d those come to greet them and removed themselves. The thudding of crates and bags hitting the ground mixed with the calls of the carriage crew as they took on freight and new customers. The ladies kept talking. The door opened and he expected that they would be taking on someone new, but it was merely the driver.

"We'll be takin' a detour to Uppercross. Picked up a package for Mr. Robertson and need to see it in his hands right away." Without waiting for a response, he slammed the door.

The name of the village rang familiar and it immediately raised a feeling of unease. Sophy had mentioned it in her letter. Cudgeling his travel weary brain he tried to remember what she had said.

"Well, I never. Let the apothecary see to his own packages, my daughter is expectin' me at the fingerpost. Her husband won't like her havin' to wait alone. Course if he'da come with her…"

After savaging her son-in-law, the woman turned her kind ministrations on the local poulterer's sad lack of knowledge when it came to cutting up game birds. His former feeling of fascination was vanished and he was now determined to know what his sister had said about the place.

Dear Frederick, In my last letter I told you of our search for a home in the country of Somerset. You will be glad to learn we have found the most perfect place. The countryside is beautiful and the house is, I am almost embarrassed to say, truly a mansion. It is the family seat of a Sir Walter Elliot…

He could never get past this line of the letter without recalling the evening he had gone to request the honour of Anne's hand in marriage. The first reaction of the prating, preening fool had been shock. It was never made clear whether the surprise was Wentworth having the nerve to ask, or that anyone would want to marry his second daughter. After a few moments of silence, the silly ass, looking in a mirror and not even having the common courtesy to look him in the eye, had sneered something to the effect that if "Lieutenant Wentworth" entertained any hopes of profiting by such a marriage, he should put them aside as there was nothing the Baronet would do for his child.

It had never occurred to him that there might be a financial advantage to marrying Anne. His only idea was to have her for his own. There was nothing that she could bring to him that would please him more than herself.

Clearing his throat, he continued with her letter:

The family is quite prominent and I would imagine you know of them from your time with Edward. I wrote to him as soon as the deal was made and his reply was full of stories about the surrounding area and stories about the Baronet in particular. They all were in agreement with matters disclosed to us in Taunton, and if we had been dealing strictly with the Baronet, I think we not have troubled ourselves with the place. The Admiral sees no harm in him, but the man is over scrupulous about various, nonsensical things. Even going so far as to wish the pleasure gardens being made off limits. He is worried about the approachableness of his shrubberies! Thankfully, he has a man of business who is more interested in his good than the man himself. We were able to come to very fair terms and we take possession on Michaelmas. The family is moving to Bath for reasons of economy. Now I am not one to crow over the misfortunes of others, and I do feel somewhat guilty in benefiting from the Elliot’s circumstances, but our brother’s letter has been some solace by explaining that the family has a reputation for being proud. As he said, “Pride goeth before a fall…

Again, there was talk of financial embarrassment and that the Admiral taking the house was actually a Godsend. He could not imagine being less concerned with any matter than that of the Baronet's striated circumstances.

His emotions had been a tumult over the past weeks. At first, he had felt anger that Kellynch-hall was to be foisted on him, and he had vowed that he would not visit his sister and brother because of their location. He had concocted various excuses he would use to keep from paying a call. None of them would have withstood his sister's wheedling, and eventually, he cooled off and for a while was indifferent to the entire situation.

This indifference was his mantle when he finally accepted the invitation and with no particular feelings, wrote to Sophy stating approximately when he would arrive. As he was preparing to leave Plymouth, he came to agree with his brother’s opinion that while Kellynch-hall might have its sad ghosts, there was a comedy playing out with its new inhabitants being some of those the Baronet found so distasteful in the past. It was with perverse satisfaction that he imagined the once grand Sir Walter Elliot losing the family seat by his own foolishness, and handing over the keys to ones so lowly as to make their living by the sea.

As he travelled, he clung to that vision of a ruined baronet, fleeing to the faded watering hole that was Bath. However, reluctantly, his own temperament eventually smoothed the jagged bitterness he allowed towards the former occupant of Kellynch-hall. He was certain the silly man did not even comprehend his predicament. The rest of the letter bore even more interesting news:

The eldest daughter will accompany the Baronet early in the month. A second lives in the nearby village of Uppercross, and is married to a young squire, the son of another prominent family. They are not of any rank we are assured by the Baronet, but they are worth knowing. I expect we will be in company with them quite often. And the third daughter will stay behind and see to the house and then remove to Bath herself…

So, Anne was married. And living in Uppercross. Looking only at the vegetation in the distance, he was determined to ignore the next stop all together.

It was not as if he thought she would cease to live after his departure. After being made to Laconia, he had considered writing her and endeavouring to revive those precious feelings once again. He had a ship and a small purse, but determined that even that would not be enough to coax her back to him. After that he became indifferent to her memory and it had eventually faded, though never disappearing completely. Now that he had arrived in Somerset, and was by happenstance in the very town in which she lived, he was only mildly interested in seeing her. It was his hope that as she was married, there would be nothing more than a polite introduction that would progress to gracious avoidance between them. All the anxiety of the past few months would be over. He could view her safely married and there would be no danger of the past being hinted at by either party.

The carriage stopped and jostled as the driver jumped down. Glancing out the window, he could see that Uppercross was typical of the small villages of Somerset. Narrow streets with houses hugging either side. He guessed they were delivering the package to the apothecary's home. The laugh of a child caught his attention. He looked out his window and saw nothing. Looking a little way up the street, a cottage sat back from the road and a woman, with two little boys, was sitting on the steps to a small viranda.  The boys seemed to be tussling over something. Suddenly, the shorter of the boys hit the other. The woman roughly took the boy's arm and was in the process of scolding him when the driver returned.

He thought it amusing that he had come all this way to be an observer to the little domestic drama. One never knew what would catch one's attention on the road. He sat back, relieved that breaking his vow had not brought him any sort of punishment, such as catching a sight of Anne Elliot.

The countryside was still brilliant with turning foliage and the drive, once out of Uppercross proper, was pleasant enough. He began to recognise houses and fields and local landmarks. It struck him strange that he should recognise the area here and not in Monkford. The carriage was drawing near to Kellynch and Frederick was determined to put aside the oppressive feeling concerning the past and reminded himself that to be with his sister, and her husband would be, as it always was, an enjoyable time.

It suddenly dawned on Deacon Chawleigh's wife that they had veered off the main road. She was vocal about the inconvenience to her and to her daughter awaiting her at the Misterton fingerpost.

They drew up before the door of the great house and the captain prepared to exit the carriage.

"Well, sir, I hope you know this side trip is a great inconvenience to us." Mrs. Chawleigh was quit displeased and not unwilling to make him know it.

Before he could think of a polite response, the door was wrenched open and the driver announced, in a voice of mock importance, "The Great Hall." The laughter from above, that accompanied the proclamation, had an edge and the captain surmised the coach crew was none too impressed either with the house or the previous occupant. "Your bags are down and it looks like the drones are here to fetch 'em." He turned his bright eye on Mrs. Chawleigh and her companion. "And since the gent was quite generous when he made the special arrangements, I’ll see you and the other lady clear into Misterton.

"But what about my daughter! She's to be—"

"At the fingerpost. I know, I know. Everybody knows." He stepped aside and allowed the captain out. "Out of the kindness of my heart, I'll pick her up and take her too."

He could hear the ladies shrill, suddenly delighted voices through the closed

door. "Sir," Frederick called, "this is for you." Handing the driver some silver, he added, "You and your man have a drink on me."

"Thank you, sir. And you have a good visit at the palace." He winked and went to his seat.

As the coach drove off, he studied the entryway of Kellynch-hall. It was not not nearly as imposing, nor large as he had it pictured. There was none of the grandeur of the past. Eight years had brought many changes, but was it the place that had changed, or he?

"Sir, this way." A footman dressed in loud brocade and a crimped wig indicated the open door.

He smiled as he entered. From somewhere inside he could hear his sister, “Hurry Admiral. Frederick had finally arrived.”

Chapter Eight

"Frederick, it has been an age." She held him close and he could not help but return the gesture. Not wishing to seem aloof, he waited for Sophy to break off the embrace. But she did not. As they grew older, their times together were less frequent and of shorter duration. Propriety in their greetings was less and less important.

“I have missed you so, Brother,” she whispered. The tears in her voice were unmistakable and she let him go.

Now it was he who held on. Grasping her shoulders, he looked at her closely for the first time in nearly six years. Perhaps ever.

The hair was dark as always, but now shot through with a few strands of silver. Her face had the ruddy hue of one who lives at sea. Over the years, the lines around her eyes had grown deeper and her skin was not precisely coarse, but no longer smooth as it was in her youth.

Over the years, everything had changed, except her eyes. They were the same hazel eyes that looked back at him in the mirror. And they were their mother’s eyes. Whereas Sophia’s were sharp and perceptive, their mother’s had windowed the melancholy and anxiety of her weak constitution and feeble disposition.

When considering his sister, he’d always thought them each different and quite separate, but today he could not help but recognise the close familial bond they shared.

Gently he kissed her cheek and pulling her close again, he said, “I think I missed you more.”

The Admiral joined them at the door; she let him go and turned to dab at her eyes. Frederick put out a hand. "Admiral, thank you for inviting me."

"It is our pleasure, Frederick." He winked. "You always liven things up when you visit." Sophy tucked his arm around hers and the Admiral took her other.

“I have tea, or something stronger, if you wish, in the sitting room. Or I will show you to your room and you can freshen up, if you’d rather.”

Not wishing to part just yet, he accepted something stronger.

For half an hour they talked of people and places of mutual interest. The war’s end, and avoided all conversation concerning the future.

“I am surprised you brought no one from Laconia with you. I would have thought Michaelson and particularly Eyerly would be in your wake.”

“Yes, well, Michaelson has taken up with some bad habits, and bad company and finds them preferable to the country.” He chose not to say he’d not even considered bringing his steward, rather, allowing him to follow his interest in brawling and gaming to their logical conclusions. “And Eyerly was headed south to an aunt. My normally stalwart crew has abandoned me,” he laughed.

“I am just surprised that you’ve no one to valet for you.”

“I have learnt to shift for myself, Sophy. I suppose it was inevitable that once put ashore, I would have to learn to live like ordinary folk.”

“I shall speak to Lowell and ask him to recommend someone to look after you.” She rose. “I must go down and speak to Mrs. Wallis about dinner. I shall have hot water sent up to your room.”

He watched her bustle out of the room. As was her custom, Sophy was in charge and seeing to the needs of others. Other than her wholehearted welcome, he saw the same confident, capable woman who asserted authority, in her proper sphere, onboard her husband’s ship and was now in command of a great country house. Sophy remained the same whether on land or at sea.

“We’re glad to have you here, Frederick. But Sophy in particular.”

“I am glad to be here, sir.”

“When we didn’t hear right away, she was worried that you might try and avoid coming. The country not being lively enough for you.”

The lack of excitement had little to do with his wanting to avoid the environs of Kellynch. But he did feel guilty that he had thought so long about dodging the visit. “I was delayed with standing the Court Martial Board and paying off and all the other petty concerns of finishing out a commission.” He relied on the Admiral’s understanding of how slow the climb of any action making its way up the Navy chain of command.

“It worked out well. After signing the lease here, it gave us time to go north and visit Edward. And meet his new wife.”

“Ah, yes, the new wife. And what is she like?”

The Admiral laughed a bit. “I knew not what to expect. Sophy is the one who generally has opinions on such things. And she was prepared to dislike her. Her idea being that as a religious man, Edward man must have a wife to suit his occupation. But to our great surprise, the new Mrs. Wentworth is quite a nice woman. No art, no pretense.”

“The tone of his letters have been different. More at ease, I think.” He did not say that he expected that tone would change soon, as soon as the newness of the marriage wore away.

“That is no surprise. Cathleen is a lovely woman.”

The Admiral poured himself more tea and continued. “I have always liked your brother. Though he and I are not of the same philosophical bent, I have always considered him a good friend. We have shared many a glass and many an interesting conversation. So I was very happy to find him so…happy. More than once I walked in one him, book and glasses in place, not reading but staring out a window and grinning like a fool.”

Frederick compared this statement with his own relationship with Edward. There was little resemblance.

Edward was always a genial host, but distant. When they shared a glass, it was at dinner and there was little in the way of conversation. He reckoned it was his lack of religious sensibilities that put them at odds. In the same way that sailors found it difficult to converse on subjects not related to the sea, perhaps the religious knew nothing of the world outside the church. And there was never a time he had found his brother smiling for no apparent reason. He was hard-pressed to remember his brother smiling at all.

Almost to prove him wrong, the Admiral said, “He introduced me to a friend of his, a physician I believe, who raises horses. He has hopes of one day winning a cup or two.”

He could not help but remember lectures on the useless pursuit of gambling. Edward had droned on about how casting your bread upon the waters of vice was a wasteful and faithless act. Finishing his sherry, he wondered if his brother had changed his opinion, or if the price of friendship with the physician was moral silence.

“I suppose you noticed that Sophy was rather enthusiastic in her welcome.”

Lifting his glass to be filled, he said, “I could not help but notice. I’ve never been greeted in such a manner.” Leaving it at that, he chose to not to say it lifted his spirits more than anything had in an age.

“You may notice that she’s a bit changed. Much more sentimental than before.”

Not by nature, and certainly not by upbringing, were the Wentworth siblings sentimental. But it would seem that time was making changes. By the Admiral’s accounts, his brother marriage might transform him into a more sympathetic human being, and his sister, while not previously a cold woman, was willing to toss propriety aside and leave no one doubting her love for family.

“Has something in particular happened?”

“She lost a dear friend this summer…”

The early part of the year had been hard for more than just Benwick.

“A very dear friend. The woman was a widow in Deal. She befriended Sophy years ago, before she started coming to sea with me. They remained close over the years. The woman was an amazing correspondent. No matter where we were, her letters found us. As we were on our way home, a letter from her daughter arrived, saying she’d died. Sophy had been talking about seeing her again after so many years in the east. The letter crushed her. After a week or so, she finally began to be herself. She told me one day that no longer would she take it for granted that those she cared for most in the world would always be waiting ashore to receive her. It had come to her that there was no way to know when you were seeing someone for the last time. That’s why she was so anxious to see you. And to visit Edward.”

It was interesting that both he and his sister would have such philosophical revelations thrust on them by death. Of course his understanding was only second-hand. Though, he too had been shocked by the hand fate had dealt. There had never been an expectation that he would be in this part of the world again, and certainly no expectation to ever see Anne Elliot again. Clearly, the future was the province of God and his prophets and it was becoming ever more obvious that he was not even one of the latter.

“So, if she seems a bit overwrought, you’ll know why.”

“Thank you for telling me, sir. It will be my first consideration.”

“Precisely what will be your first consideration, Frederick?”

Sophy had entered the sitting room without either man noticing. Standing, he downed the rest of his sherry and said, “My behaviour while I am here. I will always consider that I represent Kellynch-hall and all the nobility for which it stands.” The words sounded ridiculous even to his own ears. Hoping to end the questioning, he came to her, took her arm and said, “Now, I would like to go up and wash away some of the dirt of the road.”

“Certainly. Lowell says that one of the footmen, Harkness, would be a good choice to valet. I have instructed him to bring up hot water and anything else you might like.” After the stairs, they walked down a long corridor and turned down another. “I didn’t put you in the family wing with us. The daughter’s rooms are in sore need of attention. And are far too feminine for you. You will be in a guest room. It is smaller, but nicely furnished.”

She led him to an open door and followed him in. A man in livery was pouring steaming water into the basin. He looked up at Sophy and the Captain. An unmistakable frown crossed his face. Just as quickly, the typical bland expression of a house servant replaced it.

Putting aside the man’s greeting, he said, "I've been closeted in a rooming house for the better part of a month, sister. And before that the accommodations on the Laconia were not terribly spacious. I am sure this guest room will be more than adequate." In his heart he was glad to be in another wing from the family rooms. To be placed in the family wing, and the endless wondering if he might be in the very room which Anne had occupied, would carry the irony of the situation to ridiculous lengths.

"…yes, the accommodations of a fifth rate are a bit snug indeed. I already have plans to redecorate, and if you grace us with your presence long enough you can be moved to a larger room." She did not wait for an answer. “Frederick, this is Harkness. Lowell has said you are the best choice to valet for Captain Wentworth.” Ah, Sophy, he thought, energise the man’s pride. He’ll break his neck now, turning me out well.

“Yes, Ma’am. Sir, I have taken the liberty of unpacking your case. When you are ready, I will see you prepared for dinner.”

He wanted to laugh at the interesting turn of phrase. For a moment he wondered if there was a serving platter large enough to accommodate his tall frame. “That will be quite all right, Harkness. I will need very little in the way of assistance. But I would have you brush and lay out my blue coat and my best trousers.” The man bowed and disappeared through a side door, he assumed was a dressing room.

Sophy went to the basin and checked the water. “And how do you find the place? Has it changed much?”

“Changed?”

“Edward said the summer you staid with him that you visited here some few times. I wonder if it has changed.”

Shaking his head, he said, “I would not know. I noticed the place little then.”

Turning one of the curtains she looked at the reverse side. “We have noticed quite a lot of wear since moving in. We thought we had looked it over carefully when the baronet showed us around, but, well, you know it is rather embarrassing to scrutinise anything very closely with the owner standing over you.”

“Do you think he meant to cheat you?” He wouldn’t put it past the blighter to engage in that sort of trickery.

“No, no. I just think all the best carpets and curtains and furnishings were put in the rooms we toured. The family rooms, excluding Sir Walter’s of course, are so worn it is more from pride than not wanting to damage your male sensibilities that I put you up here. Those poor girls put up with such shabby surroundings for a long time.”

While he was relieved to know he would not be sleeping in a room once occupied by Anne, he was curious about her reaction to the baronet giving up the hall. Perhaps having an establishment of her own had eased the blow.

Pulling the drapes open wider, she said, “I think I told you that I do not revel in benefiting from the family’s difficulties. We are determined to do what we can and if in a few years they might return, we hand Kellynch back in better shape than they left her.” She continued to fuss about the room, when Harkness entered with the coat and trousers.

“I will leave you to freshen up. Dinner is not for an hour so take your time.”

As she approached the door, she touched his arm and said, “I am happy you are with us, Frederick.” Not waiting for an answer, she left him.

He was glad to be alone. He didn’t remember particulars of the place, but was beginning to feel the tone of the grand house.

“Sir, ya water’s ready. I set out ya shavin’ gear.”

He’d forgotten Harkness. “Yes, thank you.” He began his washing up.

For a while, Harkness was busy with his coat and pants. After readying his clothing for dinner, it was pointed out to Wentworth that his small clothes really were not up to the mark; which did not surprise him, as Mrs. Bale was a good soul, but not the most scrupulous laundress; and that the washer woman at Kellynch would have them glowing. He consented rather than point out no one ever viewed his under garments and that he was not concerned about their particular shade of beige.

The man had taken the clothing downstairs and returned. “She’ll have it all ready tomorrow night.”

He mumbled his thanks as he applied soap to his face. As he finished the first stroke, he glanced at Harkness in the mirror. The man’s hands were flexing and he was a study in disapproval. Taking another stroke, he watched the man’s reflection. It was comical. And it was obvious that Harkness would have liked nothing batter than to snatch the razor away and take matters into his own hands.

Concentrating on his chin, Frederick considered how servants were a double-edged sword. They had a clear, practical purpose at table and were quite welcome. It was much more convenient to have them fetch the wine than try and move about the cramped, and sometimes heaving cabin. When they were not serving, they stood behind, well out of the way. But this room was small and he could not help but hear Harkness’s muted sighs of dissatisfaction and frustration.

Wiping the blade, in preparation to shave his throat, Frederick decided to divert the man’s attention with conversation.

“So, Harkness, how long have you been with the Elliot family.”

“All my life, sir. I was born on the estate.”

He could not imagine what his life would be like if he had remained in Liverpool for the whole of his thirty-two years. Bitter and vicious like his father perhaps, or withdrawn and miserable like his mother. Such melancholy thoughts were a mantrap and course best abandoned.

“I was being groomed to tend the gardens, but the baronet liked my looks and brought me into the house.”

He studied Harkness’s reflection. The man may have been under the thumb of Sir Walter for all these years, but he still had a mind of his own. Frederick determined it was prudent to cultivate such a long-serving and talkative fellow.

“Then you have seen many changes over the years I presume.”

“Oh yes, sir. Especially lately.”

“And how do you find the Admiral and my sister.”

There was a long silence. Harkness might be talkative, but the man was not a fool. Speaking of one’s employer, no matter how abundant or slavish the praise, was a dangerous business. Leaving the question dangling in the air, he dashed his face with the hot water.

Harkness stepped up. “Towel, sir.”

“Thank you.” He dried his face and surveyed for any nicks. Pleased he’d done himself no damage; he did ask that Harkness see to sharpening the edge.

Nothing more was said as Harkness saw him dressed. As he brushed down Frederick’s coat, he did say, “I think it safe to say the opinion below stairs is that the new master and his wife are most worthy and a pleasure to serve.” He came around Wentworth’s shoulder, brushing as he went. “There are also several that hold to the opinion that Mrs. Croft is quite a lot like her brothers, very good-natured and a quick wit.” He gave a final smoothing to the lapels and asked, “Will that be all, sir?”

Frederick watched the man leave the room, surprised to discover the Kellynch staff was an inquisitive lot; surely neither Sophia nor the Admiral had volunteered anything concerning her connexions to the Wentworth family. It would also seem they possessed an extraordinarily long memory. The question was; how inquisitive were they in the past and precisely what did they remember?

Dinner was enjoyable and plenteous. He thought his sister was stuffing him with his favorite foods and wines to prove her ability as a hostess and show off her accomplished staff. The meal more than accomplished both ends.

“Unless you and the Admiral wish to be formal, I thought we could spend the rest of the evening upstairs.”

Looking at Croft, he saw that there was really no choice. “I think adjourning upstairs would be perfect.”

As they ascended the stairs, and the Crofts pointed out various of the Elliot family treasures. After a turn or two, he proposed that the gentry built such labyrinth-like houses to keep visitors lost and off their guard. And with all the little sitting rooms, ball rooms, dining rooms and libraries, there was plenty of space in which to stuff all the object' art, pretentious furniture and hanging monstrosities they imagined showed off their rank to best advantage. Standing before a particularly hideous vase, they all agreed and proceeded to the Bower Room.

“There is a large tree outside the window,” Sophy explained, “and looking out the window gives one the feeling of being perched on the limbs of it.” The footman opened the door and they stepped into a smallish, but exceedingly comfortable room. A footman, Harkness he observed, was just finishing lighting candles.

“It’s a bit dark, the tree, and the room being on the east side of the house keep it so. And, now we keep later, country hours.” Sophy directed him to a comfortable chair. “Would you prefer sherry, or something stronger perhaps?”

“I think he would enjoy a glass of that whiskey Musgrove sent over.”

“Thank you, sir. I think I will stay with sherry.”

“We have come to enjoy this little room a great deal. Unless we have a visitor, we generally use this room rather than the sitting room downstairs.”

As soon as the chair accepted his body, he was reminded of two days worth of hard seats and ill-tuned springs. It was not long before he had found the perfect spot against the pillow-like headrest, and the perfect angle to watch the cozy, warming fire. It was easy to understand why this room would attract his sister and brother.

Unlike much of the rest of Kellynch-hall, this room was restrained with a restful style and colors. The muted green walls and brown patterned rugs were very much in keeping with the notion of being surrounded by the boughs of the tree outside. The furniture was just a little worn, enough to allow one to relax and find peace and respite when the remainder of the house proved too busy.

Another footman brought him the sherry and a plate of assorted sweets. This would round out the meal nicely and after a bit of polite conversation, it was his intention to heap loads of praise on his sister, again thank the Admiral for his invitation and then excuse himself for the evening. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and thought of a comfortable bed.

“Now, don’t go to sleep, Frederick. I’ve been looking forward to playing chess. Your sister is an excellent player, but she lacks your killer instinct.”

Frederick opened his eyes to look at Sophie’s reaction to this pronouncement.

“Admiral, you know I play a strategic game. I like to win based on skill and cunning, not a game that depends on thuggish tactics as yourself.” She smiled at him over the rim of her glass.

He wasn’t really feeling up to chess, but he knew there would be no putting off the admiral. Taking a drink, he stood. A jarring clank at the fireplace drew his attention. There was nothing to see and Harkness apologized for the interruption. His eyes followed the flame up to the mantle then to the portrait hanging above it.

At first blush, he saw nothing more than a bland portrait of a young gentle woman at her sweet and beguiling best. Further study proved a stunner. The face was indeed sweet and beguiling, and to his shock, it belonged to Anne Elliot.

Chapter Nine

It had taken several years, but eventually, Frederick Wentworth knew himself to be free of any emotional attachments to Miss Anne Elliot. Occasionally, when toasting the engagement of a friend or superior officer, he felt a touch of curiosity about her circumstances, but little else. In very recent years, his thoughts of her were so trifling, and the memories of the summer they shared so dreamlike, as to leave no more impression than a yarn read during a fit of melancholy. All this had changed as his time to reenter Somerset drew near. Just after his sister’s letter, his days were filled with unbidden, and unbridled, memories of her. More than once his wool-gathering earned him a hectoring when meeting with fellow officers, and several times he found himself midway through dressing for dinner only to discover it had taken him ten of fifteen minutes to do nothing more than mutilate his neck cloth.

Their affair had lasted only a short time, but now there seemed to be no scarcity of fresh and searing memories to be had. So much so, he began to wonder if everything he saw in his mind truly occurred, or if he was giving over to folly and creating occasions that while pleasant, were not genuine events.

As the time to leave Plymouth neared, he was ruthless in taking hold of himself and banishing her again. When he felt himself slipping into her presence, he began reeling off lists of chores that must be done in order for Laconia to be put into ordinary. When these proved insufficient, he would recite the steps of taking the noon reading or the progressions of especially complex manoeuvres. If those failed, and they had once or twice, he would conjugate Latin verbs while taking a brisk walk. Anything mundane was enlisted to divert his mind and emotions. 

To his relief, the past week had elapsed in welcome peace. There were few flights of fancy, and aside from the episode at Monkford, his journey had been reasonably free of memories. But now, here he stood looking into her tender brown eyes, and his mind was asea with no lists or manoeuvres or verbs to save him.

“Well, what do you think of her?” Sophy asked.

What did he think? Months ago he would have laughed and said something to the effect he thought nothing of her. But here, now, with the heat of the fire raising oppressively, Harkness gazing passively away, and his sister awaiting an answer, he could only feign composure and ask where the portrait had come from.

“I found it in the attic. Before, there was a mirror above the fireplace, but—"

“There are so blasted many of them in this house, I begged her to find something to replace it,” the admiral said, tapping his king on the board.

“The housekeeper said I should look in the attic, that the baronet had stored several pictures up there. She is Elizabeth Stevenson. Just a few months after this was finished, she married the baronet and became Lady Elliot. That is her father standing behind her.”

Of course this was not Anne. What an idiot he was. He could now see that nearly everything about the picture argued against it being her.

The eyes had played him a trick. They were the same warm, intelligent brown that attracted him in the first place. And they were surrounded by the same fresh, pink complexion, but the chin was a bit more angular and less pleasing to him. The woman’s hair also should have hinted the difference. This young woman sported a mass of tiny curls that created a cloud of deep chestnut about her face and shoulders. While the colour was the same as Anne’s, he’d never seen her with her hair down.  And the clothes were another clue that, had he been more observant, might have saved him from diving headlong into a panic. The dress was not at all in the style of ’06. It was more like something his mother wore, though finer in cut and quality. And the man, while having fully the air of Sir Walter, was balding and not very handsome. Moreover, his frock coat and pantaloons were of an era long past, one he recognised from portraits in Whitehall, of admirals and First Lords long past.  

It was now easy to see this was a portrait accomplished years earlier than Anne’s time. Nevertheless, the eyes would not release him.

“Well, now that we’ve introduced Frederick to the late Lady Elliot, might we get on with this game?” The Admiral rose and took the opposite chair. This left Frederick squarely facing the portrait. “That corner is a bit dark and your eyes are younger than mine. Besides, it’s only polite that I give you the first move before I blast you out of the water.” He laughed and Sophy scolded.

Taking his first move, he downed the last of his sherry. He determined that sitting in the presence of the disquieting picture required fortification. “I’ve changed my mind, sir, I think I will try your much touted whiskey, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly. A man needs a good few drinks to be set right after a day or two on the road.” he said with glee. The admiral was generous and enjoyed having a drinking companion. “Harkness,” he called over his shoulder, “don’t be mean with that now. There’s plenty more to be had.” He turned back and made his first move.

The footman offered the drink. Though he gazed placidly only at the salver and glass, Frederick could swear the man watched him. Perhaps Harkness saw the expression of shock when he first viewed the painting. Perhaps Harkness knew precisely what the Captain was thinking. The thought of his old and personal business being known by anyone connected with Kellynch was revolting. But to have it bandied about by those below stairs was particularly repellent.

 Though the corner was dark, the cut crystal tumbler spread the liquid into an amber rainbow. The heat of the drink traced a path from his lips straight to his gut. He could not help appreciate the distiller and his art, as this was the smoothest, most mellow fire he’d ever swallowed. “Thank you, sir. That has indeed set me right.”

The statement was a lie. All his careful avoidance of thoughts and memories and feelings and truth concerning her was blasted apart the minute he looked up into the face of the portrait.

 With his next move he left his knight vulnerable. For certain the admiral would see this and capitalise on it. He could not lose the game, and get out of this room fast enough. For the Admiral’s part, he was growing impatient with having to draw his brother’s attention back to the board to accomplish another move.  And this happened with all the moves, as he was powerless to keep his eyes from drifting. The woman’s gaze had followed him to his new seat. In no time, Croft was claiming victory and demanding, with no little hint of disappointment, that Sophia should take her brother’s place.

“Have another drink, Frederick. I think you need it.”

How right you are, sir, he thought. To his dismay, despite all his mental blustering, he took the drink and returned to his first seat.  The desire to leave the room was indeed strong, but not nearly as strong as the desire to study the portrait.

“You said this is Lady Elliot.”  It was a disjointed statement, said less for response than to assure himself it was not Anne.

Sophy looked up. “Yes. It was early ’84 I believe the housekeeper said.”

“Is there a family resemblance? You said there are daughters.”

“Certainly with the eldest, she was here when we toured the place. Miss Elizabeth Elliot is very much like her mother, but has traces of him as well.” She and her husband exchanged looks. 

“If Miss Elliot is the image of her mother in other ways, this was not the happiest of homes,” she continued.

“Of the remaining two, one very much has her mother’s looks and the other her father’s. And that’s all that should be said on that subject. We don’t want to be accused of gossiping.” They laughed together as a sailor’s major source of sustenance was the hearty fare of gossip.

He could not risk asking who resembled whom, but it didn’t matter. He already knew.

To his relief, the chess match was heating up and each one’s attention was on besting the other. He was free to examine the portrait at his leisure.

As he scrutinised, he came to understand the painting looked odd to him because his memories of Anne had faded. Her face and form had for so long been, purposely, in shadow to him. Now, to see even a close approximation of her youth and beauty was alarming. While the picture seemed too bright and glaring to be her, it was a lovely and enjoyable study.

As he reflected, it irritated him that all his pretensions of safety were now vanished. It was a fool’s notion that her wounds to his heart were no longer open and that her marriage to another man freed him of her influence. Knowing his own vulnerability, it would be impossible to remain unconcerned and indifferent while standing in her presence. He saw clearly that he was a damned fool if he thought they would be introduced and quietly go about their business.

Tapping the glass, he signaled for another whiskey. It was excellent stuff and he could feel the effects of it acutely. Partaking of a third was to indulge himself perhaps to embarrassment. Harkness filled the glass and retook his post near the fire. What did it really matter; his valet footman was there to attend to his needs, and if required, his mortifications. Glancing back at the painting, he wondered how large the portion of his future mortification.

Looking more deeply into the bright brown eyes, so like those he was coming to remember, he cursed his weakness and the fact that he was now at the mercy of this sheet of coloured canvas.

The next morning he woke early, even the fires were not yet started. It was too early to be active and he was in a decidedly brown frame of mind. Fortunately, he’d done nothing to embarrass himself the night before. The obligatory sherry and a forth whiskey had given him the perfect excuse and he’d pled fatigue after the day’s travel. He fell asleep quickly, but woke often throughout the night. With every bout of sleeplessness came a desire to walk the few steps down the hall and look at the painting. If the temptations grew worse, he mused, perhaps it would be necessary to lash himself to the bed as Odysseus was lashed to his mast.

Turning from his stomach to his back, he closed his eyes and found her face before him. With each review, the features became more alive and all the thoughts that naturally followed came alive as well. Aggravated beyond endurance, he threw back the bedclothes and stalked to the washstand. As he poured, water sloshing over the edge of the bowl, wetting the tops of his feet. The first splash of water to his face took his breath away and drove all thoughts of bright brown eyes and achingly sweet lips out of his head. Perhaps, he wondered, it might be better to await Harkness and hot water. 

Wiping drops from the mirror, he looked at his smeared likeness. In seconds the water beaded and his reflection became somewhat clear again. He watched a drop of water appear on his chin and drip to the basin below.  

“It’s not even her,” he lectured. “The woman in that picture has been dead and mouldering in the ground for years.” Towelling his face and chest, he thought, Last night’s bout of sentimentalism was the product of fatigue and surprise. And too much drink.

As he dressed, he reproached himself. “I spent a most unpleasant week closeted away with a man who threw himself head-long into his grief and depression. I shall not allow myself the luxury of pity. Those eyes overwhelmed me, but only for last evening.

Suddenly a new energy filled him. The maudlin thoughts and memories were the fault of his arrival and were not because he had given over to any foolish sloppiness of emotion. But now he would see thing plainly, as he was well-rested and clear-eyed.  Pulling on his boots, he declared, “In the cold light of day, this portrait will not be half so seductive.” 

As he walked down the hallway, he reminded himself that while it had taken some time, he’d grown quite used to the sight of blood on the deck of the ship, and that he’d become hardened to the cries of pain from his own men. His life’s experience proved that constant exposure and repetition wore away natural fear and loathing. This being the case, he would put himself in the way of the painting at every opportunity. Its repeated presence would deaden this sudden, reanimated attachment to its perceived subject. 

As he opened the door, he purposely avoided looking over the fireplace and went straight to the window. Grasping the curtain, he swept it open. Stepping back, he looked up and said quietly, “Do your worst, Lady Elliot.” 

There was no expectation of anything of significance to occurring; neither would he turn to stone, nor the portrait burst into flame. The room remained cool and quiet. The only sound was whisper of his boots on the carpet as he went from chair to sofa to table, her eyes fixed on him as he moved.  

Her gaze was fully as warm and inviting in the early morning light as it had been the night before. To his dismay, it did not matter this was not the woman he had loved, but another, and it did not matter that the portrait was not an exact copy of Anne. It had done all the evil that was possible by giving her substance and returning her to prominence in his mind. Though it was not her, the eyes mocked him with their quiet assurance that he was a lost man.

Frederick had no idea how much time he’d spent before the portrait. Regardless, he was now certain that any time was too much. Leaving the cozy room, he reentered his own and slammed the door while cursing his return to the Hall. A clattering at the fireplace startled him.  

A young girl was torn between cleaning the scattered ashes on the hearth and standing.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Her eyes studied the tips of her shoes peeking from beneath her over long apron.

On his part, there was little he could gracefully do but mutter, “Carry on.”

There was nothing to be done but go downstairs and endure breakfast with his sister and the Admiral. 

 Meeting Harkness part way, he left the man apologising for his lateness in bring hot water. The Captain waved him off.

“I’ve always thought myself an amiable fellow but now I shall gain a reputation for frightening little girls and making babbling fools of the servants.” At this moment, none of it mattered, occupation was the only thing that would save him.

Sophia was surprised to see him up and about so early.  

“You needn’t be so quick to the table you don’t finish dressing. We are in the country, but we are not savages, Frederick.” She winked in punctuation.

To his chagrin he realised he was without waistcoat or coat. Without missing a beat, he took his chair and apologized. “I’ve had some business on my mind, Sophy. It will not happen again.”

It was now Mrs. Croft’s turn to apologise and explain she and the Admiral would be out for the morning. The gamekeeper was anxious to show them several spots where the shooting was excellent. Though the Admiral took out a gun only as an excuse to walk the countryside and run dogs, he wished to offer profitable day’s sport to any visitors they might have. Their hasty finish and departure did little to help divert him.   

After a second cup of coffee, Frederick dismissed the idea that he needed to go upstairs again. A now composed Harkness fetched his coat so that he might take a turn in the garden.

The day promised to be warm, but just now everything was damp and cool. The sounds of shovels in dirt drew his attention.

He kept to his side of a large hedge and listened to the gardener gossiping with his underling. Mackenzie, the head gardener, was repeating a rather convoluted explanation of which plants were to remain and which plants were to be taken to the Lady Russell, who still resided at the Lodge. As he spoke, various remarks concerning the personages involved wove their way through the instructions, and left the listener with no doubt of his opinions.

“Now be careful with all of ‘um. It’s a bad time of year to be doin’ this and if they dies, I’ll have that harpy from Bath down here seein’ that I swing.” The sound of a shovel commenced. “Oh, and don’t go sayin’ anythin’ about things from the Hall bein’ give away.  I don’t need the other one from Uppercross marchin’ down here, nippin’ at my heel,  claimin’ ‘er share. There’s only enough of these here ones for the Lodge.”

An irreverent snort was the assistant’s only reply and the shoveling started again. Mackenzie’s tone left no doubt that he cared neither for Miss Elliot, who he wished to remain in Bath, nor “the other one.” As he had mentioned Uppercross, Wentworth assumed this would be Anne.

It surprised him that anything to do with her would be connected with disdain or contempt. As far as he remembered, her attitudes towards all were caring and fair. Was it possible that she had changed so fundamentally?  He supposed it would be unjust to decide until having an opportunity to observe her. Now, though a little more curious, he still fostered hopes of avoiding a full out introduction.

Moving around the side of the Hall, he stopped and looked at the prospect.

It was a lovely view of the lawns and the drive. The old grey walls shone clean, almost new, in the morning sunlight. He watched the under gardener lug a full wheelbarrow to a house that set away from the main gate. This was Kellynch Lodge.

In the weeks of preparation to leave the service, the anticipation of returning to Kellynch-hall, dreading an inevitable meeting with Anne Elliot, he’d given no thought to Lady Russell. Though not mentioned by his sister, the woman was a close neighbour of the Hall, and had his fortunes been completely in the ditch, in the foreseeable future he would have been breaking bread with her; all the while deflecting glares and veiled insults no doubt. Regardless of their dealings, being in her company would have been a social requirement. But, as luck would have it, Mackenzie had mentioned she was out of the neighbourhood until Christmas. He was safe from that hazard at least.

Turning back to the rear of the house he considered the intelligence of the morning. If the gardener were to be believed, time and marriage had caused Anne to become grasping and demanding of her due. No different than the rest of the family, he thought. Which made sympathetic feelings spawned by the portrait, or regrets from the same source, a waste. And, Lady Russell would not be returning to the area until he was safely installed in Shropshire, enjoying the company of his brother and new sister-in-law.

While deeming his reconnoitre a success, Harkness interrupted and announced that a Mr. Charles Musgrove was come and wished to meet with the captain.

The name Charles was certainly not extraordinary, there were Charleses enough to man the entire fleet, though the name Musgrove rang a distant, but distinct bell.

Following Harkness, he said, “Tell me about this Mr. Charles Musgrove.” 

It was obvious the man did not leave the house often. He was careful in picking his way through the wet lawn and occasionally shook his foot to be rid of the excess dew. “He’s the Squire from Uppercross, sir. The family is quite as old as that of Kellynch. He is second only to the baronet in land. And prominence,” he added. “His eldest son is married to—“

“That’s enough, Harkness. I remember my sister mentioning him now,” he said, passing the man his coat and hat and gloves. “In the drawing room?”

Harkness nodded and another footman dashed to announce him.

A white-haired man rose from the chair near the fire. Frederick suspected his rosy cheeks and sincere smile were permanent fixtures and not due to the warmth of the room or social expectations.

"Captain, I have been most anxious to meet with you again." He bowed and made his way to shake hands.

They were obviously acquainted, and while the man had the air of familiarity, thousands of faces over many years of commissions made it impossible to place him.

He was comfortably stout, but not fat, and by the slightly out-moded cut of his clothes, it was clear he was a proper and prosperous gentleman. Perhaps he was a fellow officer, like the Admiral, retired to the country. Looking closer at his face, Musgrove had the ruddy, weathered look of one who makes his living at sea, but he did not think him of the officer ranks. It was possible he was an inferior officer, or had held a warrant at one time.

There was no use in acting prideful, and the man’s open manner did not make him think an admission of ignorance on his part would give offense.

Just as he was about to ask the particulars of their other meeting, his sister and the Admiral entered. It was explained that the gamekeeper and his men were hot on the trail of a poacher and would have to give a tour of the prime pheasant cover at another time. That being the case, the couple had decided rather than take their customary drive through the countryside, they would return to the house to see that the Captain was settling in comfortably. Both were pleased that the unhandy turn of events now meant they could entertain their neighbour.

Just as she was about to order tea, a cart appeared with all that was necessary to make their impromptu assembly enjoyable. After she poured and passed the cups, Mrs. Croft said, “I am continually amazed. The servants here are a joy and a wonder. Before one even asks, everything is brought just to your liking.”

Mr. Musgrove laughed. “Well, Ma’am, I suppose that’s what comes of being so familiar and close. They see a certain one coming and they know right away what’s expected.”

“The families bein’ so close, I suppose you were regular visitors here at the Hall,” the Admiral said.

Frederick could easily see that Mr. Musgrove was not an artful man, but his right eyebrow raised and he took a sip of his tea before saying, “Not as much as one would think. It’s actually not often that I get out of my own neighbourhood. Just now the harvests are finished, but I can’t say that I saw the Baronet more than four or five times this year. It was only by Mrs. Charles that we knew of the removal.” It was clear as he took another sip, he was giving a good face to a intricate association.

Offering Frederick a plate of biscuits, Sophy directed the conversation from the subject of the Hall or its previous occupant. "On our first visit to Uppercross, Mr. Musgrove said he thought he knew you, that you had met some years ago in Clifton … just a few months after you were made into the Laconia."

Clifton. The Bristol Channel. Perhaps the man was a pilot or even a sailing master. But as he recalled, they had used no pilot on that commission. Eyerly had been sailing the Channel since he was a sprout and proved himself indispensable to the Laconia's coxswain. No, he had no notion as to why the man looked so familiar.

"And Mrs. Musgrove has found that to be true, Mrs. Croft. She went back through the letters from our boy and just as we thought, your brother here was his captain.”

Now he had something to go on! He had met the man only in the course of commanding the son. Wentworth watched the man over the rim of the cup, cudgeling his brain. The name was now maddeningly familiar...

"…as I was sayin', Richard was never so happy as when he was with your brother, Ma'am. It was only six months and there were only two letters, but they are Mrs. Musgrove's favorites, I can tell you that." 

Good God, he thought, this is the sire of Damnable Dick.

"I recall you sayin’ your son was a midshipman. I've always impressed upon my brother-in-law that bringin' the mids along is one of the most important responsibilities of a captain. When they rise up in the ranks, they can be the very thing that saves you in a pinch."

Mr. Musgrove had nothing to say to this piece of nautical wisdom. Turning back to Wentworth he said, "It was spring and we were returning from Clifton and decided to make a visit. You were ever so good to allow us a visit with our boy."

He smiled politely to cover the realisation that this Mr. Musgrove was familiar only because he had the nerve to beget a man who, by every measurable means, was the most useless, profligate, troublesome wastrel ever to buy his way into the service of the King.

A prudent captain by and large turns a blind eye to the petty frolics of the Boys-Who-Would-Be-Officers, and allows them to settle the hash of any within their ranks who brings them undue attention, but the antics of that particular young man came to his first-hand notice too often to be ignored. There had been times in that particular six-month commission Wentworth was quite certain he saw more of the devilish heathen than all the rest of the Young Gentlemen combined.

Musgrove’s propensity for trouble kept him perpetually the lowest ranking midshipman out of the several assigned to Laconia. Wentworth figured any knucklehead thick enough get himself disrated for fighting, the very day a new captain takes command, deserved to be on the bottom of any pile. And it was only a happy accident that six months later Midshipman Musgrove was again disrated and ripe for removal when Admiral Pontus Lugg was demanding men from Wentworth just as both were beating out of Ponta Delgada, Saint Michael, in the Western Islands. Happy accident indeed.

The mantel clock announced the half hour and Mr. Musgrove made noises to leave. It struck Wentworth as odd that a man who, by all accounts, had been anxious to meet with him, though had conversed almost entirely with his sister and brother and done little more than shake his hand.

"I don't mean to take advantage of your hospitality and then hurry away, but I am obliged elsewhere. And if you will do us the pleasure, the misses is determined that you all will dine as soon as can be arranged." He stood and extended a hand to the Admiral. "She'll broach no excuses."

Sophy smiled warmly. "We are honoured by the invitation, Mr. Musgrove, but I am afraid that we will not be able to satisfy immediately. The soonest would Thursday week."

Mr. Musgrove was disappointed with the delay, but accepted the proffered day gladly. Turning to the Captain, he put out his hand and said, "I am pleased to be reacquainted, sir. And look forward to introducing you to the rest of the family. Particularly my son, Charles. His wife is a daughter of this house. That should give you all something in common."

All the proper leave taking was accomplished and Mr. Musgrove was shown out. Frederick stared at his form following the footman. He was now obliged to visit Uppercross. A meeting with Anne Elliot was very fast approaching and at every turn he was coming closer to her. The painting, the servants, and now the fact that he must pay a call to the very family into which she married. There was nothing to be done for it. They would meet soon and that would put an end to the writhing. Or would it?

To his surprise he’d slept well the night before. He had awakened feeling rested and on good terms with the world. The days of travel were behind him and his normally confident temperament was once again in command.

His fire was tended a bit early and Harkness arrived accordingly with steaming hot water for his morning shave. Those below stairs were learning his ways. This was another thing to add to his cheerfulness. Living so many years onboard ship, he had taken for granted the fact that observation of the captain and adjusting, as far as tradition and life lived by the bells would allow, to his ways and whims was customary. After his sojourn at Mrs. Bale’s boarding house, he feared he would go quite unnoticed in a great country house. He found it tiresome to be watched and measured and conjectured upon, particularly when considering some of these people were watching and measuring and conjecturing upon life at Kellynch eight and a half years ago. But there had been no further veiled comments from his valet and he had no reason to think the servants knew more about his private matters than his sister or any other person in the neighbourhood.

It occurred to him that he did lead a rather cosseted life. In all his years in command, only twice had his quarters along with most of his books, clothing and important papers, been blown to bits. While it was true that occasionally he had to endure stitching up after an injury inflicted by an enemy blade or flying splinter of oak, he did have a remarkably easy time of it.

Filling his plate with another round of eggs and ham and sausages and potatoes, he thought he should best enjoy himself. He was certain that once he was installed in the second-best bedroom at his brother’s, all these luxuries would change. While his being a captain in the navy might at first impress his new sister-in-law, he was certain that she would take her lead from Edward. It was certain that once she saw he was treated no differently than any other younger brother, there would be little to set him apart from any other poor relation come to beg a room.

And so it was that he continued reading the newspaper and stuffing himself.

As usual, the news was tedious. Just as he thought he would pass the morning without seeing the Admiral or his sister, Sophia entered. Her face was high in colour and she seemed out of breath. 

Folding the paper, he rose and helped her into her seat. “Let me get you some coffee, Sister. You look as though you’ve run a race.”

“Thank you, Frederick. It’s not me it’s the Admiral. He was up all night long with his legs.”

As he poured, he could not help seeing a preposterous picture of the Admiral and his torso in one chair, calmly chatting with his legs in another. He took hold of his thoughts as he set the cup before her. “It’s being on land. I was wondering if he might not have trouble.” After months at sea it was difficult for a sailor to accustom himself to the hard, inactive ground. For older men it was particularly difficult. “What has been done?”

After savouring the first drink, she said, “Last night, just after we retired, he said he had some pain and that he was glad to go to his bed. But in the middle of the night, he woke and was beside himself. Right now I am rotating hot and cold cloths on the legs.”

“Will you bother with a doctor?”

“Not likely. What would a landsman know about a sailor’s complaints? No, I shall see to nursing him.” She filled a plate and began to break her fast. He was glad to see being put ashore and living in a fine country house had nothing to dull her good senses. If his brother were down for a stretch, she would need to keep up her strength; starving herself, either because of affectation or neglect would do him no good.

“Is there anything for me to do that would help?” He certainly was not fond of the sick room, but if the Admiral needed company, his might serve.

“No, he’s sleeping now, dear man. I think the pain is easing up. If that’s the case, he will be sleeping for some time.”

“Well, if I can be of no use here, I thought I would repay Mr. Musgrove’s visit. We hardly spoke and I am curious about him.”

“Why is that?

He explained about Richard Musgrove and that he was curious to see what sort of family could breed such a man.

“I think you will find them rather ordinary. Perhaps even common. I have observed nothing that would lead me to think there is anything about them that would mould a man in such a way. Some men are bad for their own reasons, Brother.”

“True, but still, I am curious. And a little bored.”

“Ah, that is it. Well then,” she said, finishing her coffee, “I shall drive you over myself.”

“With the Admiral being down, do you think it wise to leave him?”

“I will check him once more before we set off.”

“I am content to walk.”

“Nonsense. I will send word for the gig to be readied.” 

“As you wish, Ma’am.” He knew from experience it was useless to argue with Sophy when she had made up her mind.

Setting him down before the Great House, she asked again if she might not send a groom back with the gig. He refused her kind offer, and before she drove away, he teased her saying he did not wish to hear tales of her racketing about the countryside bringing censure upon the good name of Kellynch-hall. At this, her smile eased the lines of worry. Promising her best behaviour, she tapped the flanks of the horse and was off.

The announcement of his visit brought a welcome worthy of someone very grand indeed. When he stepped in after being announced, the sedate atmosphere of the house fairly exploded with activity.  As far as he was able to notice, Mr. Musgrove was alone in the house. The explanation that his wife was visiting her sister nearby and his daughters were make morning calls themselves.

After the third plate of sweets was brought, along with coffee and tea and sweet wine and a crystal pitcher of water, Mr. Musgrove finally determined there were refreshments enough for a simple morning visit.

Such a welcome was gratifying. Grossly overdone, but gratifying nonetheless. As Frederick related the Admiral’s condition, feminine voices in the entryway roused Mr. Musgrove. “That will be my daughters. Girls,” he called out. “Come and meet our guest.”

He was sure he heard the voices cry out, then silence for a few seconds, then laughter. Mr. Musgrove had said they all were looking forward to his visit, though they had not known when it would come, and that the girls were particularly looking forward to meeting such a distinguished servant of the crown. Again, it was a bit overdone, but he supposed children, isolated in the country, would be excited to meet anyone not from the area. That being so, the giggling and such was natural. Who can tell what is going through the mind of little girls, he thought.  

Setting down his cup, the captain stood in anticipation of the introduction. 

To his surprise, it was not two little girls that entered the room. Not little girls at all. As they came forward to be introduced, he wondered where on earth he’d acquired the notion that the Musgrove daughters were little girls.

“Captain Frederick Wentworth, I would like you to meet my daughter, Miss Henrietta.”

When she raised her head, it was plain to see she was a sweet young woman; and very excited to meet him. The fresh round face was all blushes and dimples. Her eyes were sparkling, but he perceived shyness kept them from looking directly into his.

“And this is my younger daughter, Miss Louisa.”

Miss Louisa too was a sweet young woman, but the only time her eyes left his was when both nodded in introduction. She too was flushed, but there was little he could see in the way of shyness. 

“Girls, Captain Wentworth is Mrs. Croft’s brother. And the man who helped make Richard’s career such a success.”

He noticed a slight glance between them as their brother was mentioned. Perhaps they knew him better than their parent.

Settling themselves on either side of the captain, the girls began pelting him with questions. How did he like the neighbourhood? Was he comfortable at Kellynch-hall? Did he like to ride? How long was he planning to stay.

Mr. Musgrove laughed at the Captain’s indecision as to whom he should answer first. “This is why you must come to dine. Perhaps you could stay today. I’m sure it would be no trouble.”

The man’s kind expression, and the attentions of the young ladies, made the invitation enticing, but he was somewhat concerned with his brother-in-law’s condition and could not suddenly disappear for the day.

“I would be honoured to dine with your family, sir. But, I must beg your pardon for today. My brother and all.” Mr. Musgrove nodded his understanding and quieted the disappointed noises of the girls. “But if I might be so bold, perhaps tomorrow could be a better day. Besides, I am certain Mrs. Musgrove would appreciate a little notice of guests.”

“Papa, that would do wonderfully, then we might invite Charles and those at the Cottage,” Miss Henrietta said, glancing at the Captain, then away.

“Yes, for you know how Mrs. Charles will be if she is not included, Papa,” Miss Louisa said, ignoring the shocked look of her sister.

“Uh, well, that is best left for later, Louisa,” was all Mr. Musgrove said on the subject. “It will be an honour, Captain. I know you and my eldest son will get on very well. He is not much like Richard, but I know you will like him as well.”

The girls began to lay before him their older brother’s sterling character. The prospect that the elder son was nothing like the second did wonders to lighten his growing dread of meeting the younger Charles Musgrove.

The time was set and the Captain prepared to leave. The girls were delighted to find that he was to walk home, and offered to accompany him. It was a bit of a disappointment when Mr. Musgrove insisted that he be driven to Kellynch in his own carriage. The prospect of a leisurely walk, on a lovely autumn day, with such lively young women for company was quite appealing.

Chapter Ten

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