The letter was short and to the point: Captain Frederick Wentworth was requested and required to report to the Admiralty in Whitehall on 11 September 1815, at ten o'clock in the morning, to receive further orders.

Wentworth had not really expected the summons; or rather, he had hoped it would not arrive. He had been married barely six months, and they had just taken their first home. Yet he was still an officer in the Royal Navy, and the summons must be obeyed, so Wentworth ordered Jenkins to remove his dress uniform from storage.

It was not long before the steward returned, holding the uniform coat, a stricken expression on his face. He was a small, dapper man, clad in his usual manner while upon land: a neat black coat, trim trousers, and spotless linen. He was as particular about his captain's appearance as his own, and was nervous as a nesting mother bird over the impending visit to the Admiralty. "Look at this, Captain," he said in an aggrieved tone. "The epaulets and buttons are positively green! Didn't I tell you not to deal with that dago--" he hesitated at a frown from his Captain-- "that tailor in Lisbon? He was a cheat, Captain, and no mistake. These swabs is more brass than bullion."

Wentworth was amused in spite of himself. "I had little choice under the circumstances." He had used what was then his best uniform coat to smother a flaming coil of rope on the quarterdeck of the Laconia during an exchange of broadsides with a French privateer. The fire had proved stubborn, and the coat and its decorations were a complete loss.

"I'm sure I don't know why you were wearing your number one coat during an action anyway, begging your pardon, Captain."

"Because you laid it out for me, Jenkins. You wanted me to be properly fine when the captain of that French privateer surrendered--am not I correct? Ah well, do not take on so, man. You thought the privateer would have the good sense to strike her colours directly we fired across her bows."

"You should have waited till we were back at Portsmouth, sir, and gone to Turner's like always. Turner wouldn't cheat you. If he sold you brass, he wouldn't charge you for gold."

"No, but I was invited to dine aboard a flagship, and I could not very well wear my old work coat."

"Look at this," the steward moaned, rubbing at a bit of corroded metal. "It's enough to break your heart, Captain."

"Your heart, Jenkins, perhaps. My own is made of sturdier stuff." Wentworth spoke lightly, but not without feeling; his heart was scarred and toughened by ill-usage, without a doubt. Though of late, the old scars had softened, and some had disappeared. Anne had done that much for him.

Wentworth had realized that the epaulets and buttons were brass with a little token gilding, rather than the gold he had ordered and paid for, as soon as the coat was delivered. It was good enough for the dinner, and the Laconia was under orders to sail immediately afterward, so he ignored Jenkins's protests and let it go, planning to get properly fitted out at Turner's the next time he was in Portsmouth. However, before they returned to England, Napoleon was confined to Elba. With the coming of peace, the Laconia was paid off, and buying new epaulets for a uniform Wentworth would no longer wear seemed wasteful.

There was no time to procure replacements, so Jenkins pulled the buttons off an old coat, and shifted the epaulets from Wentworth's number two uniform; the coat looked respectable, but was far from Jenkins's usual standards. He heaved a dejected sigh, gave the coat one last furious brushing, and sent his captain off to Whitehall with little grace.

Wentworth had an appointment, much to the displeasure of the surly porter, who seemed to enjoy denying the applications of half-pay naval officers desperate for an audience with an admiral, any admiral. He was conducted to the presence of John Wilson Croker, the First Secretary of the Admiralty, a man with nearly as much power as the Lords of the Admiralty themselves.

"Ah, yes, Captain Wentworth," said Mr. Croker. "Here are your orders." He handed Wentworth a sealed packet and watched as he signed the receipt. "You are to take the Minerva to Tortola, where you will rendezvous with a convoy of merchantmen. There are some French and Yankee privateers causing trouble in the area; I suppose they are more properly called pirates. Their letters of marque are no longer valid, now that we have concluded our conflicts with their respective states. The merchant shipowners have requested the Navy's escort for a convoy departing on the first of November. Captain Merriam of the Minerva is unfortunately suffering from a recurrence of malaria, and his physician has forbidden him to rise from his bed for another fortnight. As time is of the essence, a replacement was required, and your name came to the attention of their Lordships."

"Please tell their Lordships that I am gratified by their notice," Wentworth replied politely, ignoring the sinking feeling in his breast. It was the sort of command he had dreaded: wet-nursing a convoy through pirate-infested waters, a thankless task with little hope of prize money or distinction. He could refuse the orders; he had that right. The Minerva was not his ship, and he had glimpsed several uniformed post-captains sitting anxiously in the waiting room who would be eager for such an opportunity. He knew of the Minerva; a 36-gun frigate, a fast sailer with a seasoned crew. It would almost be like returning to the Laconia.

The Wentworths had spent the first two months of their marriage in Bath, sharing the Crofts' spacious lodgings on Gay Street. As summer approached, Anne longed for the countryside, and when Wentworth heard of an available house near Crewkerne, he hastened to lease it. The house, Newbury Oaks, was not large, but sufficient for their needs, and had the advantage of being near those they loved at Kellynch and Uppercross. It also had the advantage of being within a day's drive of the sea.

After spending a few months inland at Bath, among the bustling crowds and tall stone buildings, Wentworth was astonished at the visceral reaction he experienced upon his first return to the seaside, during a visit to the Harvilles in Lyme Regis. It was as though his soul expanded to fill the sky, sailing out past the horizon to the wide seas beyond. Gazing out over the tame, flat water of the harbour, he yet felt the heave and roll of the deck beneath his feet, and knew that he had been too long on land.

That night he dreamed that he stood on the quarterdeck of the Laconia, every board of her as well-known as his own countenance in the mirror. The sun shone on her, and the sea was a deep indigo blue, reflecting the cloudless sky above; her sails were filled, she sped across the surface of the endless ocean, and he felt a deep contentment that he had not known since the Laconia had paid off. He woke suddenly, confused in the darkness and strange surroundings of the new house, his heart beating with the wild intensity of a caged animal. Anne lay sleeping beside him, and he reached for her, feelings of disloyalty and longing battling in his breast. She sleepily nestled against his chest, murmuring something that sounded very much like his name, and he held her tightly. He felt as though he had betrayed his wife by dreaming of another woman--his long-time mistress, the Laconia.

Shortly afterward, he wrote to Lord Exmouth--who as Vice-Admiral Sir Edward Pellew had been Wentworth's commander-in-chief in the Mediterranean in the latter part of the war--offering his congratulations on Exmouth's elevation to the peerage, a well-deserved reward for long and inspired service to the Crown. Wentworth told himself that he had no ulterior motive in sending the letter, but unconsciously he realized that keeping his name in the mind of the powerful was the surest method of acquiring another command. He received an answer in a few weeks' time.

HMS Boyne, off Marseilles
12 August 1815

and Affectionate friendship,
EXMOUTH

It was not quite the answer that Wentworth expected; he could almost damn Exmouth for his kindness. The sort of duties available for a post-captain in home waters during peacetime were not appealing: the drudgery of patrol duty, or the stifling correctness of transporting diplomats on their way to Vienna. Either would take him away from home for months at a time, and he doubted that the Admiralty would allow Anne to accompany him. He wrote a polite note of thanks to Exmouth, hoping that the kindly-meant letter would be buried under a pile of such requests at the Admiralty. He did not mention the letter to Anne, but the possibility of being recalled to active duty was in the back of his mind at all times, and he felt the strain of it wearing upon him.

Anne had said nothing when the letter arrived from the Admiralty. She asked him a few questions about the trip to London, and how long he would be gone; the morning that he left, she rose early to kiss him goodbye and stood watching as the chaise carried him away. Wentworth dreaded telling her that he would be gone for several months; yet he found himself telling Mr. Croker that he would report to Plymouth to take command of the Minerva in a week's time.

How could I ever have thought her too easily persuaded? Wentworth asked himself in exasperation as he looked down upon his wife, who stood with her arms folded and a defiant light in her eye. "Plymouth is a cesspool," he told her firmly. "Saloons, sailors on leave carousing in the streets with their doxies--I'll not have you exposed to it, my girl."

"You will be with me," she replied. "A common sailor would not dare to bother a post-captain's wife."

"I would not be so sure of that. Besides, once I'm aboard the Minerva I can offer you no protection."

"I shall get in the chaise and return home as soon as you embark, and Flynn will be with me." Flynn had been a topman on the Laconia, and when the ship had paid off, Wentworth hired him as a groom. He now had the sole care of Mrs. Wentworth's pretty little landaulet and the fine-stepping horse that drew it, and was as solicitous for his mistress's safety as Wentworth himself could be. He could offer no further argument against Anne accompanying him to Plymouth. They arrived in the late afternoon and checked into a respectable-looking hotel.

The proprietress led them to a dingy room with a sagging bed, a wardrobe that had seen better days, and a washstand with a chipped jug. Anne, who had fitted up Newbury Oaks with tasteful warmth and elegance, looked around in dismay, and Wentworth could not help but laugh at her. "This was your idea," he reminded her.

"I know." She smiled at him. "I can stand it for one night, if it means we can be together."

Wentworth would have taken her in his arms, but just then there was a knock on the door: Jenkins supervising the hotel lackeys bringing in their luggage. Their leave-taking must wait until later, after a surprisingly good and hearty dinner in a private parlour.

They lay quietly, neither inclined to sleep, nestled closely together as though trying to imprint the presence of one another on their memories. "I suppose it is too late to ask you to take me with you?" Anne asked after a time.

"The Minerva is not my ship, love; besides, I'd not take you to the West Indies. 'Tis a sickly place. Disease, hurricanes--"

"Oh, do not say that." She shivered, and he drew her closer to him.

"Do not fear for me," he said into her hair. "Escort duty, in peacetime! Nothing could be safer, short of spending three months at anchor in Spithead."

"You said that ships and seamen rot in harbour."

"Lord Nelson said that, love, and he was right; a ship long at anchor, in Spithead or anywhere else, runs the risk of gaol fever. We'll be at sea, with the trades blowing away any ill humours. I am always careful to keep well away from land after sundown in the tropics." Everyone knew that the night humours of the tropical islands harboured yellow fever.

"Very well, Frederick. I shall not fear for you; but I shall miss you."

"And I you. I've grown quite accustomed to being an old married man."

Anne laughed, a low and throaty sound that gave him a thrill. "Not I; I am still enchanted with newly-wedded bliss."

"I'll show you newly-wedded bliss, madam." He kissed her, and the melancholy mood was banished.

Wentworth had not expected Anne to accompany him to the pier, but as the departure time approached, she put on her pelisse and bonnet, and he was not inclined to protest. He was secretly glad that they would have a few last precious moments together in the chaise. They spoke little, but her hand rested in his, and her quiet presence was reassuring.

Anne and Jenkins had taken an immediate liking to one another, and Anne had sufficient wisdom not to trespass upon the steward's territory. She left the packing of her husband's sea chest entirely in his hands, except for the contribution of a dozen new shirts she had made, and consulted him in regard to the cabin stores. Together, Anne and Jenkins placed orders for the meat, wine, and spices, and a waggon carrying the Captain's luggage trundled behind the chaise, with Jenkins in imperious command. Wentworth would embark directly he arrived, read himself in, and sail with the tide.

The chaise stopped smoothly near the gate leading to the pier. Wentworth looked at Anne, who was smiling but a little paler than normal. She looked more like the dispirited girl he had encountered at Uppercross the year before, rather than the blooming, elegant woman he had known in Bath and married. He knew that her sense of propriety would not permit public intimacy, so he waved Flynn away from the door and lowered the shades. "We will say goodbye here," he said to her.

"Fair winds and a following sea," she said, still smiling faintly. "Is not that what sailors say?"

"It is." He put an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her. "I won't be long," he said. "I will be home by Christmas. Mark that, Anne. I will light the first Yule log of our married life."

"You will," she said softly, her head on his shoulder. "Christmas is not so far away."

"No." He kissed her again, lingeringly, and finally opened the door of the carriage, climbed out, and then handed her down.

Jenkins approached them as they passed through the gate. "I've hired a boat, Captain, and they're shifting your dunnage."

"Very good, Jenkins. I'll be along in a moment."

"Aye aye, Captain." Jenkins hurried away.

Wentworth turned back to Anne. "Goodbye, my love. Remember: Christmas."

"I shall be counting the days. Goodbye, Frederick."

He raised her gloved hand to his lips, and then swung away from her, gathering his boat cloak around him for the climb down the steps into the boat. He concentrated on getting into the bobbing craft with dignity intact, and when the oars were in the water and they had pulled away from the pier, he finally trusted himself to look back. Anne stood at the edge of the pier; when she saw him turn, she smiled and waved a handkerchief in the air. He lifted his hand, and watched her as the unbridgeable gulf between them grew wider.

As the boat drew up to the starboard side of the Minerva, a voice rang out: "Boat ahoy!"

Jenkins must have informed the boatman of the identity of his passenger, for he properly called back, "Minerva!" There was a scurry of activity on deck; the boatman's reply had alerted them that the captain was arriving.

The boat moved alongside the ship, and Wentworth reached for the ropes tossed down from the entry port; to his relief, he caught them on the first attempt. His long months on land had not completely destroyed his sailor's reflexes. He went up the side as the bosun's calls sang their shrill salute. A tall young man with ginger hair tied in an old-fashioned queue stepped forward and touched the brim of his bicorne hat. "Welcome aboard, Captain Wentworth. MacKenzie, first lieutenant." His voice held a touch of Scots brogue, and his blue eyes met Wentworth's levelly.

"Thank you, Mr. MacKenzie. Call the ship's company, if you please."

MacKenzie gave the command for all hands, the bosun's calls twittered once more, and seamen erupted from the lower levels of the ship and assembled on the deck. Wentworth looked them over critically; they stood quietly and attentively, not talking among themselves or shifting restlessly, as idle seamen were prone to do. Clearly Captain Merriam had run a tight ship, and his lieutenants had carried on in his absence. It boded well for a cruise without excessive incident.

Wentworth removed his commission from his pocket, unfolded it, and read it aloud. "By the Commissioners for Executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland..." The commission, worded in a high-flown language never used anywhere but Admiralty documents, gave Captain Frederick Wentworth, R.N. legal command of the Minerva. He finished reading the commission, folded the paper, and said, "Mr. MacKenzie, you may dismiss the ship's company. See to the transfer of my dunnage from the boat, and then report to me in my cabin."

MacKenzie touched the brim of his hat once more. "Aye aye, Captain." Wentworth made his way aft to his cabin.

The captain's cabin took up the entire end of the ship behind the quarterdeck. Wentworth opened the paneled wooden door; to his left and right were canvas bulkheads that could be easily removed when the ship was cleared for action. The bulkhead to the left formed the coach, fitted up with a dining table; to the right was the sleeping cabin, where the square-sided canvas cot slung from the deckhead swayed gently with the rocking of the ship. The slight movement of the cot made Wentworth feel queasy; he was a good sailor, but the first twenty-four hours at sea were always uncomfortable for him.

He passed into the great cabin beyond. The windows of the stern gallery swept from one end to the other; someone had drawn back the crisp blue muslin curtains, and the grey morning light filtered through the glass. A polished wooden desk stood before the gallery, and the rounded breech of an 18-pound gun framed it on either side, draped in the same blue muslin as the curtains. It was a tastefully and expensively-furnished apartment, and gave no indication that when the canvas bulkheads were stripped down and the handsome furniture struck into the hold, two gun crews could perform their deadly work there.

There was a knock on the door, and Lieutenant MacKenzie entered. Shuffling feet and low laughter could be heard behind him. "Your dunnage, Captain," he said, as several pigtailed sailors carried Wentworth's sea chest and other possessions into the sleeping cabin.

"Thank you, Mr. MacKenzie. Here," Wentworth added, handing the younger man a folded sheet of paper. "You may relay my instructions to the officers." Every captain had their quirks, and regulations were flexible enough to permit each captain some leeway in running their ship. The ship's officers would make their own copy of the instructions, and would be expected to follow them without any reminders from the captain. Fortunately, Wentworth had kept a copy of his instructions from the Laconia, and had made a fair copy for the officers of the Minerva.

MacKenzie looked down at the sheet of paper, but did not move.

Wentworth, accustomed as are all Royal Navy captains to instant compliance with his commands, looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Well? What is it?"

"We already have instructions from Captain Merriam, sir."

"And now you have instructions from me."

"If Captain Merriam were not returning to the Minerva, sir--"

"When Captain Merriam returns to the Minerva, the officers will of course comply with his instructions. Until that time, you will oblige me by complying with mine. That is an order, Mr. MacKenzie."

There was only one possible response, and MacKenzie gave it. "Aye aye, Captain."

Wentworth held eye contact with the first lieutenant for a moment. The young man's face revealed nothing; his blue eyes were expressionless. "Carry on, then."

"Aye aye, Captain." MacKenzie turned on his heel and left the great cabin.

Wentworth sat down at the desk, looked around him at the strange cabin, and gave a heavy sigh. This cruise was not going to be as peaceful as he had anticipated.

Wentworth began to feel more comfortable once they were at sea. The regular routine of the ship, with daily gun and sail drill, was helpful in that regard, and after their initial war of wills, MacKenzie obeyed every order to the letter. He was distant but civil, a state of affairs both unusual and unwelcome to his captain. Wentworth was accustomed to a warmer relationship with his first lieutenant; he called James Benwick his friend without reservation. The captain of a ship of war was necessarily a man alone--overfamiliarity with underlings could be detrimental to discipline--but aboard the Minerva, with men he barely knew, and missing Anne acutely, Wentworth felt more alone than he had in his entire naval career.

The Minerva proved a sweet sailer, and she made excellent time, reaching the Canary Islands a fortnight after departing Plymouth. They adjusted course westward across the Atlantic with the trades, on schedule to arrive in Tortola at least a week before the convoy was due to depart. To a landsman, such an indirect route--southwest from England almost to the coast of Africa, and then turning west to cross the ocean--might seem strange, but experienced sailors knew that it was the best route to take advantage of the trade winds.

Wentworth's initial impression of tight discipline on the Minerva proved correct, yet the men showed no sign of discontent. When church was rigged on Sundays, the sailors sang the hymns with gusto, always an excellent barometer of a ship's mood. Some captains would have allowed the uneventful routine to make them complacent, but Wentworth was edgy. He had sufficient experience of command to know that the peaceful interlude could not possibly last.

Three days after they turned westward, several of the men reported for gun drill in a state of advanced intoxication. Wentworth sent MacKenzie to investigate, and it turned out that one of them had got hold of a freshly-emptied rum cask, which he filled with water and hid in the cable tier for a week. The rum that had soaked into the oaken staves of the cask mixed with the water and produced a potent grog. The man shared his wealth with four of his messmates, and they had foolishly consumed the entire cask with their dinner, with the result that the youngest member of the mess, who could not have been more than eighteen, amused his fellows by spending the first dogwatch curled up on the deck moaning, and occasionally vomiting into the scuppers.

Wentworth sighed and rubbed at his forehead as he listened to MacKenzie's report. "Are these men habitual drunkards?"

"No, Captain."

"Very well. Stop their grog for a fortnight. Put it about that any man found giving or selling them his tot will suffer the same fate." The prospect of a fortnight without grog, one of the few comforts available to a sailor, was usually sufficient to guarantee adherence to regulations.

MacKenzie hesitated, then said, "Permission to speak freely, Captain."

Wentworth stared at him. "Granted."

"Captain Merriam has a standing punishment of a dozen lashes for drunkenness."

Wentworth waited several beats before responding. "I am not Captain Merriam." He felt that flogging too often lessened the effectiveness of the punishment, and saved it for more grievous offenses than simple drunkenness. Repeated episodes of drunkenness, perhaps, or thievery, or desertion; such offenses tore apart a ship, and a spell at the gratings was indicated, but sailors drinking to excess upon occasion was an expected if unpleasant cross for a captain to bear.

"I understand that, sir. If you were to remain as captain of the Minerva, I daresay a change of routine would be acceptable, but to let these men get by without a flogging, when Captain Merriam will punish as he always has upon his return, cannot be good for discipline."

MacKenzie was correct, Wentworth admitted to himself. He looked at the lieutenant shrewdly. "What punishment would you give, were you in command?"

"If this were my ship to command henceforth, sir?"

"Yes."

MacKenzie opened his mouth to speak, and then hesitated.

Wentworth said, "I will hold your answer in confidence, Mr. MacKenzie. I am simply curious."

"I would stop their grog, Captain, and perhaps give them an unpleasant duty. They could clean the head and roundhouses for a fortnight."

"A much more lasting lesson than a dozen lashes, I daresay."

MacKenzie had warmed to his subject. "I would make sure that the Admiralty knew of the purser's failure to rinse the rum cask, as well, and advise that he be fined. It is right in the instructions--the purser is to rinse out the empty rum casks with seawater, to prevent just such an occurrence." The young man's blue eyes met Wentworth's. Gone was the reserve of the past few weeks; they burned with indignation, and his brogue was more pronounced than usual. "The men did wrong, and deserve punishment, but should the purser escape when he has placed temptation in their path?"

Wentworth said nothing, but smiled warmly. After a moment, MacKenzie's lips quirked at the corners, and he relaxed visibly. "Shall I bring the men in, Captain?"

"If you please, Mr. MacKenzie."

The five men crowded reluctantly into the great cabin, prodded by the bayonets of two overzealous Marines. "Belay that," Wentworth growled. "Take off those irons." The Marine sergeant released the men from the irons and, at a nod from the captain, left the cabin.

Wentworth looked over the miscreants. Their expressions ranged from defiant to nauseated to the wide-eyed fright of the youngest. "You should be ashamed of yourselves," said Wentworth. He was truly angry with the men--angry that they had endangered themselves and the ship by getting drunk, and angry that they had placed him in the position of having to punish them so severely. "You all know that pirates are preying on shipping in these latitudes. Did you think you could work a gun or a sail when you were too drunk to stand? Did you expect your shipmates to fight for you, when you were unable to fight for them?"

The men stared uncomfortably at the deck; even the defiant oldster, his thick plait reaching down to the center of his back--the mark of a longtime seaman--dropped his gaze. The boy began to cry silently.

"You leave me no choice," said Wentworth. "A dozen lashes each. Mr. MacKenzie, you will inform the bosun's mate."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Take them away."

"Should they be put in irons, Captain?"

"No. They can go back to work, and pull their weight. I cannot carry idle men. The punishment will take place the day after tomorrow."

The men were led away, and Wentworth was left alone in the great cabin. He spent a few moments watching the churning wake of the ship through the stern gallery, and finally sat down to note the event in the ship's log.

Wentworth forced himself to go out on the quarterdeck the next day, though he knew what he would see: the bosun's mate seated by the mainmast, deliberately crafting five cat o'nine tails, one for each man to be flogged. The thin ropes were bound together, the handle was covered with red baize, and it was placed into a bag made of the same material. Two red bags sat on the deck next to the bosun's mate, bulging with their ugly contents.

The lieutenants and midshipmen immediately vacated the windward side of the quarterdeck, the acknowledged domain of the captain on every ship. Wentworth paced slowly up and down, dreading the moment that would carry him closest to the terrible sight of those red baize bags. At one point he glanced at MacKenzie, who was taking the noon readings with the young gentlemen. Their eyes met; MacKenzie nodded briefly; his eyes flicked away to the bosun's mate and back to Wentworth. That the first lieutenant was displeased with the prospect of the floggings was oddly comforting.

Wentworth stared down at his dinner; he had no appetite for it. Strange; he had witnessed floggings before, had ordered them, and had watched them with a clear conscience though without enjoyment, but the morning's punishment had affected him deeply.

Flashes of the day's events replayed incessantly in his mind: the grating raised in the gangway, the five men lashed to it in their turn; the cat cutting into their backs with each heavy, deliberate stroke of the bosun's mate's arm; the sun glinting off the hilts of the officer's swords, full-dress uniforms being worn out of respect for the gravity of the occasion; the pale face of the youngest man as he was led to the grating, and his screams of pain during the flogging.

That was it, he admitted to himself as he pushed the food around his plate. It was the boy. He was little more than a boy, after all. The young man--his name was Burns, Geoffrey Burns, Wentworth had learned--had gone to the grating as bravely as his elders, but while they had stood their punishment without comment, he had cried for mercy halfway through, and his screams and sobs still echoed in his captain's mind.

And what would Anne think of her heroic husband, the sea-captain, today? The man who ordered a boy whipped for drinking himself sick?

He sighed and pushed the plate away. I've grown soft, he thought ruefully. I've been too long upon land. The swift and simple justice of the sea seemed barbaric when he tried to see it through Anne's eyes. Thank Providence he had left her in England.

His only comfort, and it was a small one, was that the crew watched the punishment stoically; there was no shifting of feet, no murmuring, nothing that would indicate displeasure with the justice being meted. They knew the men had been drunk, they expected a flogging in the case, and they were content. Would that I could be so, Wentworth thought wearily.

Jenkins came in, banging the door shut behind him. "You ain't eating, Captain," he chided. "Mrs. Wentworth will have my head on a boarding pike if you come back from the Indies looking the starveling. You eat up now, sir. You'll have me thinking you don't like my cooking."

"You are hardly the Parisian chef you style yourself, Jenkins."

The steward snorted. "I'd like to see some fancy Frog cook do better with shipboard stores, maggoty biscuit, rancid butter--"

"Such a recitation is hardly calculated to help my appetite."

The steward subsided. "No, Captain."

After a pause, Wentworth asked, "Have you heard anything about the boy who was punished today?"

"The surgeon's tending to him, Captain. He'll get by. They all do." With these words of dubious comfort, Jenkins left the cabin.

Wentworth poured another glass of Madeira, entirely in sympathy with the men he had punished that day; just then, it seemed an excellent idea to take a cask of grog and drink himself into a stupor.

"We've made excellent time, Captain," MacKenzie observed. "A five weeks' passage from Plymouth to the West Indies this time of year is no small feat."

"We were lucky," said Wentworth grimly. "We cannot expect such luck on the passage home."

"No, sir."

Wentworth scanned the bay with his telescope. The convoy was to depart in six days, on the first of November. He did some quick mental arithmetic: he had seven and a half weeks to get the convoy into Portsmouth, and himself back to Newbury Oaks, in order to keep his promise to Anne. He was determined to keep that promise, though an English Christmas seemed terribly distant while the Minerva sailed under the hot tropical sun.

"It seems we are to have a visitor," Wentworth observed. A boat was approaching the Minerva, and young Murphy, the midshipman of the watch, hailed it.

The boatman replied, "Annis!"

Mr. Murphy gave a quick order, and the sideboys and Marines on duty scrambled to present themselves as a guard of honour. The bosun's calls wailed as a naval officer made his way up the side, and Wentworth and MacKenzie moved forward to greet him.

The officer was an ungainly individual with dark eyes and the perpetually brown skin of the sailor, wearing the insignia of a commander in the Royal Navy.

Wentworth extended his hand; Annis was the brig that would join them in escorting the convoy to England. "Captain Sherwin, I believe?" he asked. "Honoured, sir. Frederick Wentworth."

Sherwin took his hand. "Welcome to Tortola, Captain Wentworth. The honour is mine, sir." He shook hands cordially with MacKenzie, whom he already knew, and the two officers followed Wentworth aft.

"Will you take a glass of Madeira, Captain Sherwin?"

"Certainly, Captain, I thank you."

Wentworth told the Marine standing guard at the door to his cabin to pass the word for his steward, and led Sherwin and MacKenzie into the cool shade of the great cabin. They each took a chair and made inconsequential small talk. Jenkins soon entered with glasses and a decanter, poured a glass of the rich wine for each of them, and left silently as a ghost.

"How many ships of the convoy have assembled?" Wentworth asked Sherwin.

Sherwin swirled the wine, poked his long nose into the glass, sniffed deeply, then took a sip. "Thirty-three, out of forty-seven. This is very good, Captain Wentworth."

"I am gratified. Will the other ships arrive on time?"

"They will, or we leave without them. The convoy leaves on the first of November. We'd have a mutiny on our hands if we waited for stragglers. The merchant ships haven't been allowed to sail since August; their insurance policies won't allow them to leave the islands during hurricane season. The masters are chomping at the bit to be gone. And yet we'll get well out to sea and they'll get up to their usual tricks, reducing sail at night and suchlike."

"I mean to keep the convoy on schedule," Wentworth said. "Barring weather, six to seven weeks should see us in Portsmouth. We shall meet with the merchant masters on 31 October to explain the instructions." Each master of the convoy received a set of written instructions, including their place in the convoy and the manner in which they were expected to conduct their vessels.

Was it his imagination, or did Sherwin and MacKenzie exchange ironic glances? "As you say, Captain," Sherwin replied. "We must pray that we are not incommoded by weather, or worse yet, by the Mirabelle."

"The Mirabelle?"

"The thorn in the side of merchant vessels and their escorts in the islands for the past two years," Sherwin said morosely. "She was a privateer, the fastest and sweetest Baltimore clipper you've ever seen; we took her off the Americans back in '12, and while Whitehall debated what to do with her, a French privateer cut her out from Kingston Harbour, as neat and daring an action as you'd ever see. He renamed her, mounted her with twelve-pounders, and began to pick off unescorted shipping between Barbados and Jamaica. Her master's a right bastard; got a taste for privateering, too. When the war ended, rather than go back to legal shipping like a Christian, he turned pirate. Mirabelle's been a scourge on shipping in the islands, and nobody's been able to catch her yet. Came close a few times, though." He turned to MacKenzie. "Remember last year, Rob? Merriam nearly had her, and if Minerva hadn't lost her main topmast, Mirabelle would be His Majesty's property now."

"I remember," said MacKenzie quietly, his face revealing no emotion.

"If he keeps her to the Caribbean, we need not worry about Mirabelle," said Wentworth.

"He knows we'll be leaving from Tortola, and he's hungry. He hasn't had a capture for three months. There was a rumour he had her hove up in the Florida Keys with her masts and yards struck over hurricane season. Annis was sent to investigate, but we never found her. You can be sure her master knows when the convoy is leaving, and from where. We'll have to keep a sharp eye out." He drained his glass and rose. "I thank you for your hospitality, Captain Wentworth, and I look forward to working with you."

Wentworth said all the polite things, and escorted Captain Sherwin to the entry port and watched him climb down to his boat. His mind swirled all the while with what Sherwin had told him, as well as a vision of a Baltimore clipper with the Union Jack flying from her halyard.

Wentworth had sent a letter ashore the day they arrived in Road Bay, and in return had received an invitation from a sugar plantation owner named Mallory. The jolly boat was launched, and the captain's crew in their matching white trousers, blue coats, and beribboned straw hats rowed him to a dock on the southwest side of the bay. Mallory had sent an elegant barouche, driven by a black servant in elegant livery, with a sort of shade rigged on the top: all the pleasure of observing the country in an open carriage, without the discomfort of the midday sun.

Once the carriage was underway, Wentworth pulled some papers from his wallet and checked them over. Two of the papers were copies of letters he had written to Mallory, and a third document was a promissory note for three hundred pounds. It was the barrier that stood between a poor widow and a comfortable life, and his mission today was to blast down that barrier with a resounding broadside in the form of a draught upon his own bank.

Celina Smith was dear to Anne Wentworth from the time they were at school together. Anne spoke warmly of Celina's kindness to a girl grieving her mother, and indignantly of her hard treatment at the hands of the executor of the late Mr. Smith's will--Anne's own cousin, William Elliot. When Charles Smith had died suddenly of a fever, his affairs had been involved, and the young couple's property sold to pay his debts. The only thing the widow had not been able to sell was the deed to a piece of land on Tortola; the deed was held by Mallory, the plantation owner, who had lent Charles Smith two hundred pounds some four years previously. If the note could be redeemed, the land could be sold, and the proceeds provide a relatively comfortable life for the widow, who suffered grievously from both poverty and rheumatic joints.

She had written to Mallory, and asked him to sell the land on her behalf, take back the two hundred pounds he had lent her late husband along with the additional hundred he had demanded as interest, and send her the difference. Mallory had not answered the letter, and Wentworth had undertaken to write to the man, reckoning that the signature "Capt. F. Wentworth, R.N." at the end of the letter might receive a greater share of Mallory's attention than "Mrs. Charles Smith." However, he had no more success than Mrs. Smith; when he was ordered to Tortola, he immediately formed a scheme to call upon the planter and offer to settle the note from his own funds in exchange for the deed. When he returned to England, he would assist Mrs. Smith in the sale of the land, at which time she could reimburse him. It was a scheme that Mallory could hardly refuse, if he was any kind of gentleman.

The barouche turned off the dirt road and onto a gravel driveway. Wentworth squinted up at the plantation house; it was a handsome building, combining touches of classical architecture with the soft colours and textures of island construction. The carriage stopped in front of the door, a liveried servant opened the door of the carriage, and another led him into the cool shade of the house.

The house was furnished with tasteful though sparing care. The walls were painted a pale yellow that was nearly white. The sofas and chairs were in the English style, upholstered with light-coloured fabric. The ceilings were high, and the windows large, giving the rooms a feeling of airy coolness. There was none of the fashionable dark clutter of Uppercross, and little of the cozy elegance of Newbury Oaks, but it suited the house and the climate.

The servant led Wentworth through several sitting rooms until they reached a large apartment at the end of the house. Two of the walls were composed of a series of French doors that stood open, leading to a veranda. The servant indicated with soft movements that Wentworth was to go out to the veranda, and he did so, finding himself amongst a riotous jungle of green plants and colorful flowers. The ground was paved with tiles, and wrought-iron furniture was placed under some trees nearby. The smiling servant waved him to a chair and disappeared silently. Wentworth sat down gingerly in one of the wrought-iron chairs--he was a large man, and he doubted the strength of an object of such fragile appearance--but it seemed sturdy enough. Another servant brought him a tall glass containing a cool beverage that tasted of rum and lemon and sugar. He sipped it, thinking about the servants he had seen, all of whom were black; in all probability, they were slaves owned by Mallory. What kind of man could claim ownership of another? It was an idea that went against all of Wentworth's most fondly-held beliefs.

He waited for ten minutes by his watch, growing increasingly annoyed. Clearly, Mallory was playing games with him. Who did he think he was, trifling with the time and patience of a post-captain in the Royal Navy?

The opulence of his surroundings only added to his irritation. Anne had taken him to visit Mrs. Smith, in her two rooms chosen for their proximity to the hot baths as well as their modest expense. Mrs. Smith had made a deep impression upon him. Despite her pain, she remained cheerful; despite her poverty, she contrived to knit useful little oddments that she sold, not to supplement her own meagre purse, but to allow her to assist those even less fortunate. While she struggled so bravely, Mallory ignored her plight, and lived like a king, tended by servants that he purchased as though they were animals. The longer Wentworth brooded upon it, the angrier he became.

Finally, a man came out of the house. He was of advanced middle age, as tall as Wentworth, cadaverously thin, and dressed with the same spare elegance with which he furnished his house. "Good day, Captain Wentworth," he said courteously. "I beg your pardon for the delay; I was meeting with my overseer."

With an effort, Wentworth controlled his impatience. It did not serve the task at hand. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," he said.

Mallory waved his hand graciously and sat down. "What service can a mere farmer render Captain Frederick Wentworth of the Royal Navy?"

Wentworth ignored the light cast of sarcasm in the man's tone. He removed the promissory note from his wallet and handed it to Mallory. "I am here to redeem this note on behalf of the widow of Charles Smith."

Mallory looked over the note and said, "I would be obliged if you waited a few months to do so."

"That would oblige neither Mrs. Smith nor myself."

"Indeed. Well, that is certainly a problem."

"I am only in Tortola until the first of November. I would very much like to have the business concluded by then, so that I can carry the deed back to England and assist Mrs. Smith in the disposition of the land."

Mallory drew a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. "You misunderstand the circumstances, Captain Wentworth," he said. "I hold the deed to the land as surety of the note."

Mallory seemed to be hinting at something, but Wentworth could not make out what he meant. "Yes, and I am prepared to pay the value of the note with a draught on my bank."

"The land, you see, is too valuable to lie fallow. It is adjacent to my property, and..." Mallory's voice trailed off as he once again waved one of his thin, white hands in front of him.

"You have planted it." Wentworth did not bother to hide his contempt. "You have planted land that does not belong to you."

"Smith is dead. It seemed unlikely that the note would ever be paid. The land, in effect, is mine."

"The land is not yours. The note does not come due for another year." Wentworth's voice was not loud, but it was clear and strong. It was a tone of voice that made unwary midshipmen quake in their boots. It was not the voice of Frederick Wentworth, private citizen and loving husband; it was the voice of Captain Wentworth, the god of his quarterdeck, and it demanded obedience. "You've been receiving an income from the land, yet you refused to buy it from Smith's widow when she begged you to do so, in order to relieve her distressed circumstances. She had no friend to act for her then, sir, but she is no longer so unfortunately circumstanced. You will by-God buy that land, or I'll make damned sure that every Englishman in the West Indies knows that you cheated a poor, sick widow of her only sustenance."

"You accuse me of cheating," replied Mallory, his eyes glittering, "yet you will take advantage of me now?"

"I will not. The land, according to your own documentation, is valued at four thousand pounds. You will pay that four thousand pounds to Mrs. Smith, with the deduction of the three hundred pounds due you from the note. I will accept a bank draught, and if your banker in England should fail to honour it, I will send armed Marines here to collect the payment in cash. And you had better hope that your slaves do not take a mind to turn on you, Mallory. The Royal Navy might not be so quick to come to your defense as it has in the past."

Mallory glared at him for a moment, and then rose and went into the house. A few moments later, he came out with a draught instructing his London banker to pay Mrs. Charles Smith the sum of three thousand seven hundred pounds. "The carriage is waiting to take you to the dock," he said.

Wentworth carefully folded the draught into his wallet and rose. "I thank you for your time, and the use of your carriage." Mallory said nothing, and the servant materialized from the shadows of the house and led Wentworth through the house to the drive.

As the barouche carried him back to the dock, Wentworth thought with great satisfaction on the day's events. Three thousand seven hundred pounds, invested in the Navy Fives as was the greater part of his own fortune, would bring Celina Smith one hundred and eighty-five pounds per year in interest. No one could call that a handsome income, but it would keep her in bed and board and medical care, and perhaps permit her to hire a servant to assist and nurse her. He felt he had not only repaid Celina for the kindness she had shown Anne, but had assuaged some of the guilt he still carried from the flogging of young Burns. All in all, a fine day's work.

To a landsman, the sight of more than forty ships in exact formation, their sails swelling against the tropical sky, would be magnificent. To Wentworth, it was a source of constant anxiety.

The masters of the merchant vessels had been summoned to the Minerva before the convoy left Tortola. They stood or sat sullenly as the convoy instructions were read and explained to them, resentment rolling off them in palpable waves. These men, unaccustomed to the chain of command, answered to no one save the owners of their vessels, who made no demands short of bringing in the shipment at the lowest price possible; to have some prating peacock of a naval officer telling them how to sail their ships was hardly to be endured.

"Louisa Maria has dropped behind again," said MacKenzie, who stood beside his captain at the taffrail, his telescope trained on the horizon.

"Signal her, if you please, Mr. MacKenzie."

"Aye aye, Captain." MacKenzie looked around and shouted, "Mr. Murphy!"

"Yes, sir!" cried the young gentleman, snapping to attention.

"Kindly signal the Louisa Maria to return to her assigned position."

"Aye aye, sir." Murphy ran a series of flags up the signal halyard, then watched the sloop through his telescope. "She's not answering, sir."

MacKenzie looked questioningly at his captain.

Wentworth heaved an internal sigh. "Round her up."

MacKenzie immediately shouted a volley of commands, and the deck sprang to life as seaman swarmed up the masts and out onto the yards. With her sails trimmed, Minerva swayed to starboard as she came about, curving back toward where the sloop Louisa Maria lagged behind the convoy.

Wentworth watched the crew's activities, his brow creased in consternation. His ire was not directed at his officers or seamen; indeed, he had perfect confidence that MacKenzie knew his business, and would ensure the crew's compliance. He was angry at the master of the Louisa Maria, who had made either Minerva or Annis perform this maneuver three times between them in the two days since the convoy had departed Tortola. To see the Minerva, a magnificent, deadly, finely-tuned instrument of war, relegated to the role of a collie dog rounding up stray sheep too stupid to stay within the protection of the flock gave grievous pain to any Heart of Oak.

As the Minerva tacked and wore, making her way tediously back to the Louisa Maria's position, Wentworth could not help but smile at the irony of the sloop's name. She was as lively and precociously pretty as the former Louisa Musgrove, now Mrs. James Benwick. Just one year ago, Wentworth had enjoyed the attentions of the sweet young Louisa, and had gloried in what he considered the firmness of mind that made Louisa the superior of Miss Anne Elliot, who had accepted him and then spurned him eight years and a half before. When that very decided nature threatened Louisa's life, he learned to regret firmness so misapplied. He was finally able to understand the true superiority of his own Anne, who had a firmness of her own, and the innate sense and propriety that gave it the proper direction.

He could see Anne now, standing beside the taffrail, the tropical breezes bringing colour to her face and a light to her eyes. She would have laughed at his helpless rage; she would have said, "To let such a snip of a girl bring you so low! Now, Frederick, you are more clever than that."

Yes, love, I am more clever than that. Wentworth called over the first lieutenant and outlined his scheme.

Minerva circled the Louisa Maria and came up alongside. Wentworth raised the speaking trumpet. He could have been heard easily on the deck of the sloop had he shouted, but the dignity of a post-captain in the Royal Navy must be maintained. "Mr. Vernon!" he called. "You will make sail to rejoin the convoy directly!"

The master, a rotund man in a ragged blue coat, apparently cared nothing for his dignity. He simply cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. "I daren't, Captain Wentworth. The sails will split."

Wentworth had already heard this argument; Vernon feared losing his sails, putting the owner of the Louisa Maria to some expense to replace them, an expense that would come out of the small crew's pay--or so Vernon claimed. Wentworth suspected that Vernon took perverse enjoyment in being contrary and in forcing the entire convoy to adhere to his own plodding pace. Wentworth raised the speaking trumpet once again. "You will make sail, Mr. Vernon, or we will be forced to put you under tow."

The oath flung at him in reply made Wentworth glad once again that Anne was safely back in England.

"Very well, Mr. MacKenzie," said Wentworth quietly. "He has been warned."

MacKenzie shouted instructions, and the frigate drew forward of the sloop, and suddenly wore to starboard, cutting in front of the Louisa Maria. Wentworth could hear shouting from the deck of the sloop, which he ignored. "You there," he cried, pointing at the young topman who had been flogged. "Burns, come here."

Burns flew to his captain's side, his eyes wide and worried.

"Can you drop down to that bowsprit?" Wentworth asked him, pointing over the stern of the ship.

A slow smile spread across the young man's face. "Aye, cap'n, I reckon I can."

Wentworth quickly explained the plan to Burns, who nodded in understanding. Burns tied a rope around his waist; his mates held the other end of it. He dropped quickly over the stern and past the gallery until he dangled a foot above the bowsprit of the Louisa Maria. He waited for the ships' movements to bring him close to the bowsprit, and when the wake of the Minerva lifted the bow of the sloop, he dropped down on it on all fours. His mates threw down a hawser and stood watchfully by, ready to haul him back if he should come into danger.

He crawled forward until he reached the base of the bowsprit. The crew of the sloop had seen what was happening and ran forward with long, wooden staves, which they used to attack the young man, driving him back along the length of the bowsprit.

"Marines, stand to!" Wentworth bellowed, and red-coated Marines aimed their muskets at the deck of the sloop. The attacking crew members fell back immediately, and Burns was able to loop the hawser through the forward rail of the sloop. When he was finished, he waved at the Minerva, and his mates quickly hauled him back to the deck, still carrying the end of the thick hawser, which was taken away from him and secured. He was greeted with cheers and slaps on the back.

"Well done, Burns," said Wentworth, and the young man rewarded him with a friendly grin. Wentworth's conscience was at peace for the first time in nearly a month. "Marines will stay in position," he ordered, and the muskets remained trained on the bowsprit so that the Louisa Maria's crew could not cast off the hawser.

MacKenzie shouted another order and the Minerva's sails were released. As they filled with air, she churned back to join the convoy, towing the recalcitrant sloop. Wentworth watched Vernon's angry gestures and capers with a sense of savage satisfaction. As always, he understood ships better than women; this Louisa had not got the better of him.

Feeling a rather celebratory mood, Wentworth invited MacKenzie and two of the midshipmen, Murphy and Whitcomb, to join him in the coach for one of Jenkins's hearty dinners.

The young gentlemen ate wolfishly, as though afraid that someone might take the food away before they could get to it. Jenkins piled their plates several times, declaring it was "good to see younkers what enjoy their victuals," implying with a sniff that the Captain did not. They all ate their fill, finished off a bottle of wine, and at last relaxed over cheese and port.

Whitcomb had watch, so he turned down the port (somewhat regretfully) and went off to the quarterdeck. Murphy followed soon after, and Wentworth invited MacKenzie to join him in an after-dinner cigar. They went out to the poopdeck; there was no moon, and the darkness rushed past them like black velvet as the Minerva moved steady and silent through the night.

They stood in companionable silence by the taffrail, the ends of the cigars glowing as they drew. Wentworth found that his thoughts were very much with his Anne that night; she was probably asleep at that moment, curled warmly into their bed at Newbury Oaks, and despite the satisfactory activities of the day, he could wish he was with her. After a time, Wentworth asked, "Are you a married man, Mr. MacKenzie?"

"I am, Captain."

"The naval wife has a difficult time of it, I think."

"Well, my wife's late father was a Royal Navy captain, so she knew what she was getting into. Navy wives have more mettle than we sometimes give them credit for, I think."

Wentworth thought of his sister Sophy, who preferred the privations of seafaring life to being separated from her husband. "I believe you are right."

The food, wine, and cigar had made MacKenzie unusually loquacious. "I thought we should wait to marry till I made post, but in peacetime that might not happen for years, if ever. When I had some leave earlier this year, we talked it over, and Teresa decided she did not want to wait any longer. We both have a little money, and with my pay, we get by well enough."

Wentworth was startled to discover that he still felt some residual bitterness over the reaction of Anne's family to the same situation: to persuade her against marrying him when he was a newly-made commander in the year six, with no ship and no fortune. Shortly after Anne broke their engagement, Wentworth had received a command, the sloop Asp, barely fit for home service. He had gone off in her determined to prove himself, determined to make a fortune, determined to show the Elliots--especially Anne--how wrong they had been to spurn him, and he had been fearless and sometimes foolhardy...but she had brought him success at last. He had earned that success, and a fortune in prize money, by his brilliance and skill and courage, and if that was not good enough for Sir Walter Elliot, Bart., then the devil take him.

The truly lowering notion was that it had been good enough for Anne, more than enough, indeed, and in his anger and injured pride he had not realized it; he had not given her the benefit of the doubt, had not allowed himself to admit that she was superior to her family, and had lost several years of happiness for both of them. For all his success as an officer, he had failed that test of a man. However, his naval career had taught Wentworth pragmatism, and he was willing to take the gift he had rediscovered on his second meeting with Anne, and build on it, and she accepted that as she had always accepted everything about him.

He came back to the present suddenly, and realized that he had dropped his end of the conversation, so he said, "You are fortunate to have a place in peacetime."

"I know it. I wouldn't have minded the war lasting a little longer; I could have put away a little more prize money, and if I was put on the beach, it wouldn't signify."

"Would you not miss navy life?" Wentworth remembered how a part of him had longed to be back at sea, even while he relished his marriage.

"I daresay, but I wouldn't miss convoy duty very much. And my wife is expecting a child now. If I could be settled on a regular station, I could bring her with me, but all this back and forth, she's better off in Portsmouth."

"I think my wife would like to be on a foreign station, but it is unlikely that she will have the opportunity. When this voyage is over, I may never go to sea again."

MacKenzie laughed. "I doubt that, sir."

A captain grew accustomed to a certain amount of flattery from his underlings, but MacKenzie was hardly the toad-eating type. "I have not the pleasure of understanding you."

MacKenzie did not immediately answer; finally, he said, "You do not know, then?"

"Know what?"

"I believe that your appointment to this ship was by design, Captain, not chance." Wentworth was too astonished to speak. MacKenzie went on. "Captain Merriam's bout of malaria was hardly life-threatening; a little fever, perhaps, but he threw it off early on. I believe that the Admiralty has been looking to replace him, but he has influential friends in Parliament."

Wentworth found his tongue. "I see. Why did they wish to replace him?"

"You heard Captain Sherwin refer to an incident where the Minerva almost had the Mirabelle, but lost the main topmast? It was not lost by mischance; it was lost through ineffective handling of the ship in a gale. Captain Merriam was determined to capture the Mirabelle, and Minerva was carrying too much canvas. Not only did we lose the Mirabelle, we nearly lost the Minerva as well on a lee shore."

"I had no idea."

"No, you would have been in the Mediterranean still, then. It was before the ending of the war, and Captain Merriam's friends had it kept quiet." There was bitterness in the younger man's voice. "I regret the incident; I regret that I did not step in and strongly advise Captain Merriam to reduce sail and leave the Mirabelle for another time. When the topmast went over the side, it was only with the strictest attention and hard work from the crew that we managed to keep from grounding her."

Wentworth digested the first lieutenant's words silently. After a moment MacKenzie said, "I owe you an apology, Captain. When you joined the ship, I thought you were aware of all this; I thought perhaps the Admiralty had sent you to the Minerva to...." his voice trailed off.

"Spy upon you?" Wentworth asked with a slight smile. "No, I was only given orders to get the convoy safely to Portsmouth."

"Then I beg your pardon for my initial rudeness."

"You have it, Mr. MacKenzie."

"I thank you, sir." He paused, and then added, "I now believe that the Admiralty gave you this command because they think you are the man to capture the Mirabelle once and for all. I feel the same way, sir." He tossed the end of his cigar over the rail. "I will wish you good night, Captain."

"Good night, Mr. MacKenzie, and thank you for the...edifying conversation."

After hearing such a revelation, it is understandable that Wentworth found it difficult to fall asleep. He lay in the swaying cot, staring into the darkness, he knew not for how long; it seemed that he had just closed his eyes when Jenkins shook his shoulder.

"Two bells, Captain."*

"Very well." He sat up blearily; Jenkins had already brought hot water and laid out his uniform. His morning ablutions were quickly performed, and he was on deck as sunrise approached. MacKenzie was already there, his queue impeccably tied as always.

"Beat to quarters, if you please, Mr. MacKenzie." With the possibility of a prowling pirate always present, the Minerva would greet the dawn ready to fire a broadside.

"Aye aye, Captain."

The bosun's calls shrilled as the men ran to their positions by the guns and stood ready. The lookouts were already in their high perches, telescopes trained on the horizon.

The sun crept up over the horizon, and every officer on the quarterdeck was scanning the horizon. Soon the "all clear" call came, and Wentworth ordered the men to their usual morning duties. He had been concentrating on the Mirabelle, and seeing the convoy all around him in a general way, had not thought of more, but now it occurred to him to check on the Louisa Maria. Vernon had a habit of reducing sail unnecessarily at night, and the sloop had probably fallen behind the convoy.

He trained his telescope on the sloop's position, to windward of the Annis, and was unsurprised to find the sloop was not there. He scanned the convoy, looking for the Louisa Maria's haphazardly patched sails, and was unable to find her.

The Annis was approaching from starboard, and signals were flying up her halyard. Wentworth read them before Murphy was able to report: "The Annis is signaling Minerva to heave to, sir. Captain Sherwin wishes to come aboard."

Wentworth immediately shouted commands through the speaking trumpet, and the deck sprang to life. By the time that the sails were trimmed in such a way to keep the Minerva still in the water, Sherwin had launched his jolly boat. Wentworth was waiting for him as he came through the entry port.

"The Louisa Maria is gone, Captain," Sherwin murmured as the captains walked to the windward side of the quarterdeck. "I had a glimpse of a sail on the far horizon at dawn. It was gone before I could be sure, but it appeared to be the Mirabelle. We must assume that the sloop is taken."

*for you lubbers...that's five a.m.

"Vernon was carrying lights last night," said Sherwin. "More than running lights; he had several lanthorns on the main deck and some below as well." The masters of the merchant ships were told to keep their ships dark at night in order to hide their location from unfriendly eyes. "The lookouts reported that the lamps went out at three bells on the middle watch,* and they reported seeing no other ship."

"If Mirabelle came up with no lights, the lookouts could have missed her," said MacKenzie. "It was black as pitch last night."

"Or they could have cut her out with small boats," said Wentworth. "Did you not say that was her captain's mode of operation?"

Sherwin was contemptuous. "Aye, he likes to sneak around in the dark, not match broadsides like a man."

"We cannot expect honour from pirates, Captain Sherwin."

"No, sir."

"If it weren't for the convoy, we could give chase," said Wentworth. Regulations did not permit them to leave the convoy unprotected.

"Vernon is a fool, Captain," MacKenzie put in, "but he does not deserve to be left to the tender mercies of a pirate."

"And we will not be leaving him so." Wentworth stood and paced the small cabin restlessly. "We must lure the Mirabelle back to the convoy and take her. You say that the Louisa Maria was carrying lights?"

"Aye, sir."

"Then we shall attract her the same way, like a moth to the flame." Wentworth smiled thinly. "But she will not find a foolish merchant master waiting for her."

Wentworth's first notion was to disguise Annis as a merchant vessel, but it occurred to him that the captain of Mirabelle would have scouted the convoy and probably knew which ships were the escorts and which the mules. Thus, he must use one of the merchant ships to lure the pirates. He consulted MacKenzie, and they agreed that a small sloop or barque would be best.

"I know which I'd like to use," MacKenzie told him. "The Highland Lass."

Wentworth smiled. "I trust that your choice is not based upon simple patriotism."

"No, Captain. Though she's a bonnie enow lass," replied MacKenzie in a brogue grown suddenly thick as Scottish porridge.

When he had time to consider the matter carefully, Wentworth had to agree with MacKenzie's assessment: the Highland Lass was the ideal choice. He had only to persuade the master to allow them to use the barque as bait.

Wentworth was careful to stand in the bow of the jolly boat, where the insignia of his rank--the gold braid edging the white lapels of his blue coat and the epaulets pinned to his shoulders--could be clearly seen. He could wish them grander in appearance; for once he saw Jenkins's point about the shabbiness of his dress uniform. There was nothing like brightly shining objects to distract the simpleminded.

The jolly boat came up alongside the Highland Lass, and Wentworth went up the side with MacKenzie following. He could not expect side-boys or bosun's calls aboard the merchant barque, but he saluted the quarterdeck with all the savoir-faire of an admiral coming aboard his flagship.

"Ah, Captain Buckley," he greeted the master, who was eyeing him warily. "Very good to see you again, sir!" He turned to his first lieutenant. "You were quite right, Mr. MacKenzie. The Highland Lass is certainly a beauty! Captain Buckley is justifiably proud of her. The ships in his Majesty's Navy should be so fine!"

Buckley was still suspicious, but could not resist a bit of a preen. "I keep her ship-shape and Bristol fashion, Captain. The deck is holystoned thrice weekly, her sails are patched as soon as need be, and she's painted regular."

"Indeed?" replied Wentworth with as much interest with which he might have greeted news of the greatest import. "That is very well, sir, very well indeed. Mr. MacKenzie, I believe the Highland Lass will suit our purposes admirably."

"Aye, Captain. We'll have to shift some men over, naturally--"

"Oh, that goes without saying, Mr. MacKenzie."

"And powder, and shot--"

"Here," interjected Buckley, "what are you on about, sirs? We don't need no more powder and shot than we has, nor no more men, neither. I've got all I can do to feed 'em as is--"

"Quite correct, Captain Buckley," Wentworth interrupted. "We cannot expect you to feed men in the employ of the King. Mr. MacKenzie, see to it that sufficient stores are brought on for the additional men."

"Aye aye, Captain."

"Captain Buckley," said Wentworth, "you are a true patriot, and your name will be included in my letter to the Admiralty and published in the Naval Chronicle."

Buckley stared at him in astonishment. "The Naval Chronicle?"

"Certainly, and deservedly so! Risking this fine barque to capture a marauding pirate--why, you'll be the toast of Portsmouth! Every seaman in every pub will be wanting to buy you a pint."

"Pirate?" Buckley looked wildly from one officer to the other.

"Yes, Captain, the deadliest pirate in these waters. I have not seen such disinterested patriotism since the war ended. It is good to know that the seagoing fraternity still stands as one." Wentworth beamed and pumped Buckley's grimy paw. "Well done, sir, well done! Mr. MacKenzie, you will see to the transfer of Captain Buckley and his men to Annis and the transfer of a full complement of experienced seamen to the Highland Lass. Fear not, Captain Buckley, we'll care for her as one of our own." He quickly turned and made for the ladder to the jolly boat. "On behalf of the Royal Navy, your country, and your King, Captain Buckley, I thank you." Wentworth raised his hat and bowed gallantly to the astonished and very confused master.

The jolly boat crew was efficient and soon had Wentworth and MacKenzie back to the Minerva. "That was easier than I thought it would be," said Wentworth, handing his bicorne to Jenkins as he entered his cabin.

MacKenzie gave him an admiring smile. "I confess that I did not think your scheme would succeed, Captain. I stand corrected."

"It was simple, really. First, distract him by flattering his vanity, and then convince him that we did not commandeer his ship, but rather that he volunteered it." Wentworth smiled to himself; the entire exercise was inspired by the method he employed on his father-in-law. "Now to choose the men. Experienced men only, Mr. MacKenzie, good with small arms in a boarding action. See to the quarterbill, if you please."

"Captain, if I may presume--I would consider it a personal favour if you would allow me to lead the mission."

Wentworth hesitated. "I had thought of Mr. Briggs. I know he is junior to you, but I need you here on the Minerva."

"With all due respect, Captain, the Minerva has no place in this action, and it might be my last chance to--" he bit off the words as though they were offensive.

Wentworth nodded shrewdly. "Your last chance for glory, and perhaps a ship of your own. I salute your ambition, but--" he hesitated, and finally said, "Mr. Briggs is not a married man." He moved closer to the first lieutenant and said softly, "To have her husband killed in an action while on convoy duty--I could not face Mrs. MacKenzie if you should not come back."

"If I were not a married man, would you give me the command, sir?"

"Yes."

"Then please have the respect for me, and for my wife, to do what is best for the service, and the action at hand." His blue eyes softened. "Teresa is a navy wife, sir. She understands, as I'm sure Mrs. Wentworth understands."

Wentworth was immediately ashamed; he had let his own anxiety for Anne cloud his judgment. It would not happen again. MacKenzie was correct: naval wives sent their husbands off to sea knowing that they might not come back. He tried to ignore the thought of Anne standing on the pier at Plymouth, a handkerchief fluttering in her hand. "Very well, Mr. MacKenzie," he said crisply. "You will take command. I believe you understand my intentions."

"Yes, Captain."

"Then, good luck and fair winds to you." Wentworth held out his hand, and MacKenzie took it. With a smile and a salute, he was gone.

The two small boats slipped through the inky darkness, attracted to the lanthorns swinging along the deck and the sound of a single seaman keeping himself company on watch by quietly singing a sea chanty. The boats came up alongside, the oars were stowed quietly, and the men in the boats swarmed up the side of the barque and onto her deck, each with a bared cutlass in hand. The leader glanced around: there were two overturned boats on her deck and a closed grating over the hatch. The lone seaman on board, his ginger-coloured queue standing out against his striped slop shirt, was standing near the bow and paying no attention to the rest of the ship. The leader beckoned to his crewmates, and they made their way to the hatch and lifted it quietly.

Suddenly, the overturned boats were lifted up, and redcoated Marines aimed their muskets at the invaders. Even the singing seaman had swiveled about. He had a pistol in each hand, pointed toward the invaders. "Bon soir," he said politely. "In the name of King George, lay down your arms, or we will kill you."

The leader looked around wildly. "Je ne parle pas anglais."

MacKenzie smiled. "I doubt that, but if you insist: Dépose vos armes, ou nous vous tuerons. Vous me comprenez maintenant?"

The look in the leader's dark brown eyes was murderous. He raised his cutlass and ran at MacKenzie.

Sailors poured out of the fo'c'sle, cutlasses held aloft. The pirates stopped, startled; some threw down their arms and begged for mercy; others fought and were killed. Several of the Minervas suffered wounds, but none were killed.

Two Marines held the wounded, struggling leader between them. MacKenzie said to him in French, "You have committed piracy by taking the Louisa Maria, and your life is forfeit. If you take us back to the Mirabelle, the court martial may have mercy upon you. The choice is yours."

A short time later, the lights on the deck were put out, the barque's sails were raised, and she moved steadily away from the convoy, the boats that had brought the pirates to her towed behind. On the deck of the Minerva, Wentworth watched the Highland Lass melt into the darkness.

Wentworth had not slept; he paced the quarterdeck as dawn approached, opening and closing his telescope impatiently.

"Have a cup of tea at least, Captain," Jenkins fretted behind him. "I can carry it to you here."

"Very well. Bring it to me." He drank the tea in a few gulps and handed the cup back to Jenkins. It warmed his belly and raised his spirit for a time, but anxiety for MacKenzie and the Highland Lass weighed upon him. The men had taken up their positions at the guns. There was an air of restrained excitement about the ship; who knew what sunrise would bring?

The sky went slowly from inky black to dark grey, and a bellow came from one of the lookouts: "Deck there! Sail on the larboard quarter!"

Wentworth ran up to the poop and raised his telescope to his eye, cursing in impatience at the slow-rising sun. Soon it was light enough to make out that the Highland Lass was cruising toward the convoy, followed by a sloop with distinctively patched sails: the Louisa Maria. Sailing ominously behind the sloop was the long, lean line of a Baltimore Clipper. It was Wentworth's first glimpse of the Mirabelle, and she took his breath away. Everything about her said speed and power; her lines were clean and perfect. As the light increased, Wentworth could make out a blue-coated figure on the quarterdeck; a ginger-coloured queue hung down his back, tied tightly with a black ribbon. Somehow, MacKenzie had found the time to get into a proper uniform .

"Make the recognition signal to the clipper, Mr. Whitcomb," Wentworth commanded. He had established the signal with MacKenzie before he had embarked.

The young gentleman ran up a series of flags, and trained his telescope on the approaching clipper. "She's made the proper response, sir."

"Very good, Mr. Whitcomb." Wentworth was not convinced; the recognition signal could have been revealed to the enemy under duress, though he would not expect it of MacKenzie.

Whitcomb still had his telescope on the ship. "She's signaling again, sir. She's spelling out...M-O-T-H...ENGAGE ENEMY...and then...FIRE?" He turned to look at his captain incredulously. "Captain, I am certain that is the signal, but it makes no sense."

Wentworth was smiling. He understood MacKenzie's message completely: the moth had been drawn to the flame, and had been consumed.

*in this case, it is 1:30 a.m. Yes, I know it is confusing.

Wentworth read over the letter. It was addressed to John Wilson Croker, First Secretary of the Admiralty; this was the standard method of explaining an action to their Lordships. When the letter was published in the Naval Chronicle, a reader might then infer that their Lordships were a great deal too busy with vital affairs of state to bother themselves with something so ordinary as correspondence. However, Wentworth knew that everyone in the upper echelons of the Admiralty would read the letter as well as his fellow officers.

I wish to especially commend the actions of Lieutenant Robert MacKenzie, who led the mission to recapture the Louisa Maria and capture the Mirabelle. Mr. MacKenzie performed his duty with the utmost dispatch and courage and at all times demonstrated the best qualities of the Service. Wentworth smiled to himself; that last part was for Mrs. MacKenzie. A naval wife must have some compensation for that tax of quick alarm she paid when she sent off her husband to the sea.

Midshipman Whitcomb appeared at the door of his cabin. "Mr. Briggs's respects, Captain," he said, "and there's a signal. Captain Merriam will be on board shortly, and then you're to report to the port admiral at your earliest convenience, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Whitcomb." The young gentleman disappeared.

Wentworth looked around at the now-familiar great cabin, his for only a little longer. Merriam would read himself in, and Frederick Wentworth's commands would then have no legal bearing upon the crew. He had enjoyed the latter part of the journey from the West Indies; he had the full respect and admiration of the officers and the ratings, and the merchant masters, frightened and shamed by the capture and recapture of the Louisa Maria and the taking of the Mirabelle, no longer strained against their leads. They kept to formation, and did what they were told, and the rest of the voyage passed off uneventfully. They ran into some contrary winds, but had arrived in Portsmouth that morning, the twenty-first of December. Wentworth's sudden nostalgia for the Minerva was not as strong as his wish to hire a post-chaise and be on the road to Newbury Oaks.

The prisoners were off his hands, at any rate. A detachment of Marines had collected them as soon as Wentworth informed the port admiral of their existence. The leader of the pirates had been killed in the boarding action, shot in the heart by Mr. M'man Murphy as the pirate raised his sword against MacKenzie, who had slipped on the deck of the Mirabelle. As a reward for defending his commanding officer, Wentworth had put Murphy in command of the Louisa Maria. The pirates had not killed Vernon, her master--they considered him too good a source of information about the convoy--but Wentworth could not trust him to follow instructions, despite Vernon's protests and oaths. With a Royal Navy officer in command, Wentworth could be sure of no further trouble from the sloop, and the gleam of pride in the young man's eyes upon first being addressed as "Captain Murphy" was a true pleasure. Wentworth had been fortunate in his commanding officers while he was rising through the ranks, and he was always glad to repay those favours by helping deserving young officers in his turn.

MacKenzie, of course, had command of the Mirabelle. He had won her; it was right that he have command of her. Wentworth had made sure to praise MacKenzie highly in his letter, hoping that their Lordships of the Admiralty would see fit to reward the first lieutenant as well.

Whitcomb appeared at the door once again. "Captain Merriam's boat is approaching, sir."

"Very good." Wentworth went out to the quarterdeck. The sideboys had gathered by the entry port, and within a few moments the shrill salute of the bosun's calls rang across the deck. Merriam came over the side; he was not a tall man, but carried himself in such a way that no one would dare suggest otherwise. His hat, when he removed it to the quarterdeck, revealed greying hair, and he looked around proprietarily and approached Wentworth.

"Captain Merriam," said Wentworth, "welcome back to the Minerva."

"Thank you, Wentworth. Looks as though you've looked after her well enough while I was away." He looked around and added, "I shall have the brasswork polished up in no time; you needn't consider it."

Wentworth knew that there was nothing wrong with the brasswork, but he ignored the sally; he had a better. "I regret that Mr. MacKenzie is not on board to welcome you, sir. I daresay you've heard by now that we took the Mirabelle." Indeed, if Wentworth knew anything at all about Portsmouth, the docks were buzzing with the sight of the glamourous clipper. "I gave him command of the prize, of course."

"Aye, I saw MacKenzie at the port admiral's. Pretty action you pulled, Wentworth, very pretty. Daresay we'll all read about it in the Chronicle soon enough." He sniffed, glanced around, and said, "You'll oblige me by calling all hands, Captain?"

"Of course." The command was given,and the men raced topside. Merriam pulled out his commission, read it aloud, and said to Wentworth, "I relieve you, sir."

"May I have the use of a boat to transfer my dunnage ashore, Captain?"

"Of course, of course." He nodded to Briggs, who immediately called away the ship's boat, and Jenkins, who stood forward with Wentworth's sea chest and other luggage, supervised their transfer to the boat. Several of the seamen, busy about their duties, stopped as Wentworth passed to smile and salute him in the way of sailors, by touching their knuckles to their foreheads. Wentworth, truly appreciative of the gesture, nodded to them kindly and went over the side and down to the boat.

"Extraordinary story, Captain Wentworth, simply extraordinary." The port admiral, a balding man named Morton, shook his head in disbelief. "Cut her out with a couple of boats! And the leader killed, eh? Too bad. I'd like to see his body hanging in chains at Graves Point; it might have discouraged anyone thinking of following his lead. Of course, the scrub was well paid for his cheek--picking off the Louisa Maria with nothing more than a by-your-leave." A lieutenant came in and handed Morton a folded note. He read it, and then said, "I telegraphed Whitehall as soon as you came into Spithead this morning." The telegraph was an ingenious system of signal towers between Portsmouth and London, which could relay signals from one end to the other in a few hours via the same system of flag signals used by ships at sea. "I have just received an answer. Their Lordships wish to see you at your earliest convenience."

Wentworth's earliest convenience was sometime in January, after he had a good, long reunion with Anne, but he knew that in the language of the navy, "your earliest convenience" was synonymous with "directly." Admiral Morton confirmed this when he said, "You have an appointment at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning."

Wentworth glanced down at his dress uniform, which after two months at sea was in worse shape than when he had departed, and knew that Jenkins was going to be as disappointed as he.

"You should depart directly, if you wish to get to town by tomorrow," added Morton, consulting his watch significantly.

Jenkins had worked some magic with his captain's uniform, and Wentworth presented himself in Whitehall looking enough like a successful post-captain that the porter was not above angling for a tip. A guinea was received with a polite bow, and the porter led Wentworth down the hallway toward the First Secretary's fiefdom. He was not entirely surprised to see MacKenzie walking toward them.

The porter stood at a discreet distance as Wentworth greeted MacKenzie. "Well?" he asked.

"I've been promoted to Commander," said MacKenzie with a smile. "I'm to have the Mirabelle. They are buying her into the service and putting her on the Bermuda station. Dispatch work, mostly, and some scouting." It was not necessary for him to add, better than convoy duty. "I must thank you, Captain Wentworth. Your letter to the First Secretary was generous. I was only following your orders, sir. Your plan was brilliant and daring."

"And brilliantly executed, Captain MacKenzie. I am glad to hear you are employed on a regular station. Will Mrs. MacKenzie be joining you?"

"Aye, after the babe arrives."

"I am glad of it. Please give her my regards."

"And give mine to Mrs. Wentworth." MacKenzie held out his hand. "It has been a pleasure serving with you, Captain Wentworth."

"And with you, Captain MacKenzie."

MacKenzie smiled again, and moved off down the hallway.

The porter opened the door and showed Wentworth into the First Secretary's private office.

"Captain Wentworth," said Mr. Croker. "A pleasure to see you again."

"It is very good to see you again, Mr. Croker."

"I have given a report of your voyage to their Lordships, and they are very impressed, sir, very impressed indeed. Mirabelle has been a thorn in our side for years. She is being bought into the service, and with her superior speed, their Lordships feel she will serve them well on the Bermuda station."

Wentworth did some quick mental calculations; she would bring him a few thousand pounds in prize money, all told. A pretty Christmas gift to take home to Anne, if he ever got there.

"We are finding ourselves needful of more ships on the Bermuda station, Captain Wentworth, and some thought has been given to recommissioning the Laconia."

Wentworth was all astonishment. "The Laconia, Mr. Croker? She was my command at the end of the war."

"I am aware of that, Captain. The next step of your career should be a ship of the line, or perhaps a flag captaincy."

Wentworth could imagine nothing less appealing, except perhaps more time on the convoy, but managed to keep his expression one of composed interest.

Croker continued to speak. "Their Lordships were hoping that you would forgo advancement in the name of the service, and take command of the Laconia should the decision be made to recommission her. Fast ships and experienced captains are needed on the station. Would you consider accepting such a command, Captain Wentworth?"

Caught between Scylla and Charybdis, Wentworth thought ruefully. Croker was offering him precisely the sort of command he desired, and yet to take it, he must leave Anne again. Yet there was only one answer he could give. "Certainly I would consider it, Mr. Croker. I hope that their Lordships will see fit to give me command of the Laconia once again." To say anything else would mean he might never receive any command again, even if another war were to come. He would find a way to explain it to Anne.

"Very good, Captain." Croker gave him a wintry smile; clearly he had received the response he sought. "You do understand that their Lordships have not yet reached a final decision as to the disposition of the Laconia, but your recent actions will certainly have a bearing. Their Lordships like to reward good service. Incidentally," he added, turning away, "Lieutenant MacKenzie--I should say, Captain MacKenzie--will be on the same station. 'Tis a pity you can no longer serve in the same vessel, though any admiral would be pleased to have two such fine officers under his command, I dare say."

"Thank you, Mr. Croker. I cannot speak highly enough of Mr. MacKenzie's actions in the capture of the Mirabelle and his conduct as an officer."

"So you said in your letter. High praise from a distinguished captain such as yourself will always be interesting to their Lordships. Very well, Captain, their Lordships have directed me to thank you for your recent service, and I shall contact you if your attendance is required here. You are still in residence at--" he consulted a slip of paper--"Newbury Oaks, near Crewkerne, in Somerset?"

"Yes, Mr. Croker."

"Very good. I look forward to speaking with you again."

Wentworth understood the First Secretary's words to be a dismissal, and he left the building.

Jenkins waited for him outside with a hired post-chaise, Wentworth's sea chest and other possessions already lashed to the top. "Home now, Captain?"

"I have one stop to make first here in town, Jenkins."

The post-chaise barrelled toward Somerset for three days almost without stop, except to change horses and occasionally for a meal, quickly bolted. The postilions complained, but Wentworth simply gave them more money, and their inclination for speed was always suitably increased. However, money or the approbation of the Lords of the Admiralty could not bring Newbury Oaks any closer to London, and it was not until a little past noon on the twenty-fifth of December that the post-chaise pulled into the semi-circular drive in front of the house.

Wentworth climbed out unsteadily, aching in every muscle. Jenkins paid off the post-boy and went around back to fetch the man-of-all-work of the household to assist him in unloading the Captain's dunnage.

The housekeeper opened the front door and stared at Wentworth as though he were an apparition. "Merry Christmas, Johnson," he said genially. "Where is Mrs. Wentworth?"

Mrs. Johnson found her tongue. "In the drawing-room with Mrs. Smith, Captain."

He moved toward the drawing room and threw open the double door. The two ladies, who had drawn chairs close to the blazing fire, looked around and exclaimed in surprise.

"Merry Christmas," he said. "I said I'd be home for Christmas, and I am."

Anne stared at him, her brown eyes wide in her pale face.

Wentworth spread his hands wide. "What, no greeting for the returning sailor?" he asked, laughing. "I suppose you are angry with me for missing morning service, but--"

And then Anne, his demure and elegant wife, always proper, always modest, ran across the room and flung herself, sobbing, into his arms.

Anne's face was buried in his coat, and her body shook with sobs.

"Why, what's this, love?" he asked her softly. "I am home, Anne; I am home."

"Forgive me, Frederick," she sniffled, and then raised her head and looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with tears. "It is just that when you did not arrive by the solstice, I did not think you would be home in time for Christmas."

Wentworth smiled down at her. "You should know better than to give up on me so easily, Anne."

She returned the smile through her tears. "I do know it. I am just so happy that you are here, safe!"

"I should beg your pardon for arriving so late. The convoy was delayed, and I was called to the Admiralty."

Anne dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Delayed? Did something happen?"

"Some trouble with a pirate, but we sorted him out," he said lightly. It was a sufficient explanation for the present. There was no point in sparing her sensibilities with an untruth, as she would read the account of the capture when it appeared in the Naval Chronicle. "I see you had the Yule log lit," he said, looking at the blazing fire.

"Yes, Charles came over with some men from Uppercross to bring in the log and light it."

Wentworth made a mental note to thank his brother-in-law for looking after Anne. He was glad that she had her family nearby.

"And you must forgive me, Celina," cried Anne, turning to her friend, who sat by the fire watching them with a wistful smile. "Here is your hostess, acting like a lovesick girl!" She turned to her husband and added, "I invited Celina to Newbury Oaks to keep me company while you were away."

"An excellent notion," he said, smiling at Mrs. Smith. "I am glad of it. I thank you, ma'am, for your kindness to my wife."

"Who could be anything but kind to Anne?" her friend asked.

Wentworth felt an uncomfortable nudge to his conscience as he remembered a time when he was not very kind at all to Anne. "I am glad you are here," he said. "Glad for my own sake, because I am pleased to see you; glad for my wife's sake, as she takes pleasure in your company; and glad because it is Christmas, and I have brought you a gift."

Mrs. Smith and Anne both exclaimed in surprise. "A gift!" cried the older woman. "I certainly did not expect such kindness, sir!"

Wentworth pulled out his wallet. "While I was in Tortola, I took the opportunity of paying a call on Mr. Mallory."

Mrs. Smith's face paled as she recognized the name, and she clutched her shawl more tightly around her.

Wentworth took the chair next to her and said, "It was an infamous piece of impertinence, madam, and I hope you will forgive me, but I felt a personal visit would do more than a score of letters, and there was no time to consult you before I departed." He handed her the bank draught. "I was correct in my assumption; I was able to persuade Mr. Mallory to your scheme. He purchased the land for four thousand pounds, and kept back what he was owed from the note. This is for the difference."

The widow took the draught with trembling hands. "Captain Wentworth, how can I ever--oh! So much! Such riches!" Tears poured down her face, and she turned to him and seized his hand. "How shall I ever repay your kindness?"

"You have already, with your friendship to Anne, in the past and the present. I am delighted to have been of service to you, ma'am." He stood and made an elegant bow over her hand.

"Now I am in need of my handkerchief!" she cried, fumbling in a pocket. "Anne, we shall drive the good Captain back to sea with our tears and megrims! Oh, dear, I have left it upstairs." She rose from her chair with some difficulty.

Anne said, "Do not trouble yourself, Celina; I shall send Milly to your room to fetch you a handkerchief."

"No, no; I will be grateful for Milly's arm, but I cannot sit still for so long, as you know, even by this good fire."

Anne rang the bell, and the maidservant helped Mrs. Smith make her slow progress out of the drawing room. She gave Wentworth a saucy smile as she passed, and he suspected that she was leaving them alone on purpose.

Anne's eyes shone with pride and happiness. "What a fine thing you have done, Frederick," she said. "Have you breakfasted?"

"The only sustenance I require is you, my darling," he declared, pulling her into his lap.

"Such nonsense," she laughed, but came willingly enough, and even put her arms around his neck.

"Mmm, you did miss me," he murmured, touching his lips to her jaw.

"I did," she said. "Very much."

Wentworth's hands, denied the simple pleasure of touching her for so long, moved hungrily along her waist and hips. "You're blooming, Anne," he said. "You have gained some weight; it suits you."

Anne smiled. "There is a very good reason for that." She kissed his temple lightly, then put her lips to his ear and whispered, "I am pregnant."

"Dear God! Anne!" Wentworth stared up at her in astonishment. "How--when?"

"I suppose you mean to ask when I expect to be confined," she replied, blushing prettily. "The end of April next."

He could only say, "Anne!" once again, stupidly.

She laughed and kissed him. "You surprised me today, and now I have surprised you. You never answered my question; have you breakfasted?"

"No," he admitted. "We drove straight through from London, and only stopped to change horses. I had a promise to keep."

"You have kept it well," she said as she rose from his lap. "Let me fetch you some tea and toast. We are invited to dine at Uppercross today."

"Must we?" he asked, refusing to release her hand. "I've just got home, and you expect me to run off to Uppercross and gorge myself on roast goose?"

"The Musgroves would never forgive me if I did not bring you, Frederick. They have been exceedingly kind to me while you have been away."

"Of course," he said, chastened.

Anne kissed him again. "If I indulged only my own wishes," she murmured in his ear, "we would stay home; but Celina looks forward to these dinners as well. She has enjoyed little society since her husband died, and an evening out is a great treat."

"Then by all means, we shall go," he declared. "And as I know that Christmas at Uppercross means a great deal of music and noise, you must save me a dance, Anne. You will not play for everyone else to dance; not tonight."

"I would be honoured to dance with you, Captain Wentworth," she said with a graceful curtsy. "Now let me get your breakfast."

Jenkins had drawn a hot bath, and laid out clean clothes; really dry clothes, without the faint dampness that all clothing acquired at sea. Civilian clothes felt strange to Wentworth after even a short time in uniform. The fine linen of the shirt was cool and relaxing next to his skin. He did up the studs, and glanced at himself in a mirror. He would do well enough for Uppercross, and more importantly, for Anne. When he caught a glimpse of himself upon first arriving, he was appalled; dusty, creased clothing, several days' growth of beard--and yet Anne had flung herself into his arms and kissed him, more than once.

He passed through the door that connected his dressing room to Anne's. She was seated at her dressing table, where Milly was putting the final touches on her hair.

Anne smiled at her husband and said softly, "That will be all, Milly." The maidservant curtsied and disappeared silently.

"I see I have arrived at the propitious moment to give you your Christmas gift." He produced a flat box and handed it to her.

"Your coming home is all the gift I--oh, Frederick!" she cried as she opened the box and saw what it contained. She stared down at it in astonishment, her hand fluttering over her breast like a white bird.

Wentworth sat on the bench beside her and said, "I hope you will forgive me for being an hour later arriving home, because I stopped to choose this for you. I knew it was for you, as soon as I saw it." He lifted the gold and ruby necklace from the box. "Because it is fine and beautiful; delicate, yet strong; thoroughly elegant, yet with a fire deep within, a fire that warmed me even on the other side of the Atlantic." He laid it around her neck, the fiery stones nestling in the hollow of her throat and catching the candlelight. He fastened the clasp, and then touched his lips to her neck, then, more urgently, behind her ear.

Anne turned to him, her eyes alight with the passion that only he knew lay behind her elegant, demure exterior.

"Aye, there it is," he whispered, "there's that fire," and took her in his arms and kissed her.

Some time later, Anne said, "Now I could wish we were not going to Uppercross."

Wentworth laughed. "We cannot disappoint Mrs. Smith and the Musgroves."

"No, we cannot." She looked him over. "You look very fine, but are you not wearing your uniform tonight?"

"As of four days ago, I am not a serving officer," he reminded her.

"You are not allowed to wear it?"

"No one will object, if that is what you mean, but it is not really done."

"That is a pity. You look so handsome in your uniform."

"Now that is a temptation, to have my Anne think me handsome; if my number one uniform weren't a crumpled, dusty wreck after three days in a post-chaise, I might consider it, but even Jenkins would be hard put to make it presentable tonight."

Anne's eyes sparkled. "You have not yet seen your Christmas gift." She fetched a large box and set it on the bench next to him. "I hope it is right."

He opened the box and blinked, startled, at a post-captain's dress uniform.

She watched him anxiously. "Is it right? I wrote to Turner's; Jenkins told me that you procure your uniforms from him. Mr. Turner said that he had your measurements and would make it as you require."

"Anne, it is perfect." He ran a finger along the gold braid decorating the front of the coat.

"Oh, there is one more thing." She pulled a small box from a drawer and handed it to him. It contained a pair of gold epaulets.

Wentworth was much moved, even more so than he had been by the uniform. Seeing the insignia of his rank as they were meant to appear, golden and shining, tangible representations of the success he had earned, was a powerful emotion. He was unable to speak for a moment.

Anne misunderstood his silence; she said, disappointment in her voice, "It must be wrong. You do not like it."

"No, no, Anne, I like it. I love you for going to so much trouble on my account, but--"

"What is it, Frederick?"

"It is unlikely that I shall have an opportunity to ever wear these, other than to dinner at Uppercross."

Anne relaxed and smiled. "Oh, is that all! I dare say you will have another command soon."

"I would not like to leave you, again, so soon; and certainly not at this time." He reached out and tentatively touched her belly; even through the layers of silk and muslin, he could feel the slight swelling that was their unborn child.

"Oh, Frederick." Anne's voice was tender. She rested her hands on his shoulder and said, "I always knew that I would share you with the sea. I knew it when you courted me in the year six, and I knew it when I married you. I would not keep you always at my side, chafing to be away."

He reached up and took her hands in his. "Anne, there is a chance that the Laconia will be recommissioned, and sent to the Bermuda station. I have been promised the command, should I want it. Would you like to see Bermuda, love?"

"Oh, now you will take me along," she teased him. "I suppose Bermuda is not such a sickly place, then? But of course we do not call Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies."

"Very well, if you would prefer to stay behind--"

"You will not leave me behind, Frederick." The determined light was back in her eye.

He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly for a moment. "I would not try. Very well, Anne. If I am given this command, I will take a house in St. George's, and come home to you between cruises." He gently passed his hand once more over her interesting new roundness. "You and the child."

"Now that," she whispered, "means more than all the jewels you could bring me." She rested her cheek against the top of his head for a moment. "Should you not change into your uniform? We shall be late."

Uppercross was as noisy and happy as Wentworth had predicted, and after dinner the young people got up a dance in the big old hall. Mrs. Charles Hayter--the former Henrietta Musgrove--agreed to play for them, as she was large in the family way and quite unable to dance herself.

Wentworth claimed his dance and swept Anne around the hall. The younger people watched him admiringly, such a tall, handsome man in his uniform shining with gold braid and bullion; the older Musgroves watched him with a wistful air, thinking that poor Richard, their son who died as a midshipman, might be such a one had he lived; but Wentworth had eyes for none but his Anne.

The music stopped for a moment, and he pulled her out of the crowd and to an out-of-the-way doorway to catch their breath. The irrepressible youngest Musgrove, Harry, down from Rugby for the holidays, shouted out, "Captain Wentworth, you stand beneath the kissing bough! Claim your reward, sir!"

Wentworth looked up, and found that Master Harry spoke truly; the boughs of evergreen wound with mistletoe hung from the molding that formed the opening of the doorway. He glanced down at Anne, who shook her head in alarm. Stolen kisses in the privacy of their own drawing room was one thing; kissing him in front of all the company was another, and her sense of propriety would not permit it.

"No, Frederick," she pleaded.

His arm clasped her around the waist and drew her inexorably closer as the assembled crowd, flushed from dancing and the contents of the wassail bowl, shouted encouragement.

Anne could not help but laugh in the face of the absurdity of it all. Wentworth saw surrender in her eyes, and leaned in for his prize; the best he'd ever taken. "Merry Christmas, Anne," he said, and kissed her soundly as the Musgroves cheered.