Conclusion Back to Previous Chapter Gwendolyn poured a cup of the tea that Mrs. Brumby had brought and passed it to Walter. She poured one for herself and sat back, sipping the tea and looking at Walter searchingly. "You do not appear to be heartbroken." "I would not say that I am. Disappointed, yes, very much so; but not quite heartbroken." "I am glad to hear it; and it is a lesson to me not to place my faith in second-hand reports." "You heard gossip about me in town?" "I have correspondents in Somerset, you know." Charlotte Smedley, he thought with a grin. "I am certain that you do, love. You are looking quite well yourself, by the bye. Town life agrees with you." "I believe that it does." "Debauchery, dissolution, late-night balls; all the things that ravage lesser mortals give you a glow. Or are you in love?" "It is interesting that you mention that subject." She laughed self-consciously. Walter was astonished to see that she was blushing. "I have received a most obliging offer of marriage from his lordship of Dalton." "Dalton? His doting mamma permits it?" "Do you not read the newspapers, sir? The Dowager Countess has been gathered to her fathers. Dalton is free to marry where he likes. Apparently, he likes me." She smiled wistfully. "He loves me, Walter." "Gwen, it is perhaps not my place, but--his former abusive and insulting treatment of you gives me pause. I beg you will consider that as you make your decision." "Oh, but he has changed," she said earnestly, setting down her cup. "Dalton only abused me when he was in liquor, and he only drank to annoy his mother. With her gone, he has become so responsible and--kind. He tends his estate with great care; and he is all consideration for me. I know he loves me. He always did." "Yet you hesitate." "For one reason only." Her eyes met his, their green depths glowing in the dim light. "I had to see you--I had to know. Is there any hope for us, Walter?" Her question took him aback. Hope? For us? And then, Why not? With Eileen gone, forever for all he knew, why not Gwendolyn? The memory of their happy sojourn in London warmed him; the bitter ending, the recriminations and regrets were thrown aside. He opened his mouth to say yes--perhaps-- "You shall make a charming countess, love." Gwendolyn closed her eyes for a long moment; then she smiled at him warmly. "I think you are right." He reached for her hands. "I am so very sorry; but it would not have done. You must know that." "You are right. You are always right." "You would not be happy here, Gwen. You are not a creature of this place." "Are you?" There was a tinge of bitterness in her words. "I am. I was born here; my heart is here; it always was. My life is here now as well. I am a simple country rector, and happy to be so. Go to your Earl, and give him children, and love him. I know you capable of it." She made a noise that was half laughter, half a sob, and a tear dropped glittering down her cheek. He reached up to catch it on his thumb. "I've never seen you cry, Gwen." "Because I've never let you." She took a deep breath and collected herself. "There! I am myself again. I dare say I have Eileen Gilbride to blame for my failure." "Perhaps," he admitted. "Poor Walter; deserted and lonely." "Hardly that," he said with a smile. "Well, you've been caught at last, and properly, too." "I've been caught before." "No. You only thought you were. Otherwise you would not have been able to give me to Dalton so easily." She rose. "I must be on my way. I have a letter to write." "To Dalton?" "Yes. The dear man was willing to wait for my answer. Well, he is getting what he wanted; and perhaps I shall come to love him. If I do not, he shall not know it. I mean to be a good wife to him, Walter, faithful and refined and respectable. Even you shall approve of me." He caught her hand to his lips. "I wish you joy, Gwen." She reached up and caressed his cheek. "I thank you, Walter. That means a great deal to me." As the footman helped her into her carriage, he almost called her back; almost asked her to stay, or to take him with her. There had been great affection between them at one time, and he craved affection; but deep within him, he knew that it was not Gwendolyn's affection that he craved. It seemed as though winter arrived overnight. Trees reached their naked branches heavenward to the pale skies, as if imploring the sun to return. Walter's breath blew in frosty gusts before him as he walked to the Cottage for Christmas dinner. It was to be a quiet Christmas at Uppercross. Eliza was still confined after giving birth to her third son, so the Leighs would be spending the holiday at home in Hampshire. Even Walter's many cousins seemed disinclined to pay holiday visits, so Anne's dinner party was to be small: her parents and sister, Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove, and Walter. After dinner, as they all sat in the drawing room, the nurse brought in Marianne to be held and spoilt by her closest relatives. They passed the infant from hand to hand, Charles watching anxiously lest anyone drop her or handle her roughly, until she was at last deposited in her uncle's lap. Walter talked nonsense to the child in a singsong voice that made her shriek with delight. "See, Walter?" his mother asked complacently. "All females find you charming. I know that Miss Gilbride left you in the lurch, but you will find another nice girl to marry, never fear." Charles and Anne exchanged glances, and Charles said hastily, "Mother, we are so glad you could dine with us tonight. We were concerned that your indisposition yesterday would prevent it." As Mrs. Musgrove loved nothing better than talking about her indispositions, her younger son's heart was quickly forgotten while she recounted her pains and spasms in detail. Walter, conscious of his brother's sacrifice, shifted Marianne in his arms and crooned to her again. She reached up, seized his chin in a surprisingly strong grip, and made a rude noise, as if in dismissal of her grandmother's symptoms. Walter laughed at this impertinence, and Anne crossed the room to sit beside him. "I can take her, if you are weary," she said. "No, Miss Musgrove and I are thoroughly enjoying one another's company; aren't we, love?" He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, and she seized the lapels of his coat and nestled comfortably against his chest. He smiled and caressed her curly head, his heart overflowing with affection for this tiny, trusting creature. "It is good to see you smiling and laughing again." "Have I been so morose?" "Well, no, but I confess that Charles and I have been concerned for you, since--well, since Eileen left." "I thank you for your concern, but I am quite well, Anne. Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love." He stroked Marianne's hair for a moment and then added, "Do you correspond with Miss Gilbride?" "Yes." She looked embarrassed. "I am glad of it. The worst of this for me is that Michael was taken to a place that has proven unhealthy for him, and that you have lost having a friend in the neighbourhood. These are crimes that must be laid at my door." "I do miss Eileen, but I am sure not as you do." "And I am sure that you miss her as much as I do, just in a different way. I hope she is well?" "Yes, quite well. She writes cheerfully, but I do think she misses Somerset." With Anne, he need not nurture pride; he could ask the question closest to his heart. "Does she ever ask about me?" She took his hand and said, "In every letter. Oh, Walter, have faith. I think she will return, I do!" "Faith is a blessing, love, but one, I fear, that has quite abandoned me." He embraced his little niece, and then reached out to gently pinch Anne's chin. "But my life has its compensations. Do not waste sympathy on me. Right, Marianne?" The child made another rude noise, and Walter and Anne burst into laughter. The late March day held a hint of spring; a softness in the air that presaged the return of the giving warmth of the sun. Walter roamed the meadows, heedless of the mud and the wet grass, driven out of doors by restlessness and something calling to his blood. Hope, and faith; both had indeed abandoned Walter. He put on a good show for his family, but not without effort. Since Eileen and Michael had left for Ireland, Charles and Anne were touchingly anxious for him, always inviting him to dine and drink tea, fussing over him as though he were a widower, rather than a bachelor nursing a wounded heart. Walter was torn between amusement and annoyance at this treatment, though always grateful for such affection. As the winter wore on, he had found some comfort and consolation in his work; his enjoyment of it was undimmed by his disappointment. The troubles of his parishioners threw his own into perspective. The gratitude expressed for the simple services he could render was humbling. He could not permit himself to wallow in his romantic misfortunes when he witnessed the cheerful forbearance of the truly unfortunate. He did not need the reminder of spring to draw him into the garden. The bleak winter landscape seemed compatible with his blighted hopes, and he had walked there a great deal over the past months. It was in the garden, with reminders of Eileen everywhere he turned, that he was most forcefully reminded of the squandered opportunities of his life. He did not regret releasing Gwendolyn to her earl. He had read of her wedding in the newspaper only the week before; the breathless description of the bride's gown and jewels and the enumeration of the groom's ancient family line had amused him. Gwendolyn had been correct; the ton had publicly accepted her, even if they might privately consider her one of Dalton's mid-life eccentricities. Walter could be happy for Gwendolyn in her new life. She would be cherished and adored and would move in the glittering world that appealed to her so much. Dalton would make her a better husband than he would have. And for himself? Unlike Anne, Walter held out little hope that Eileen would return to Somerset. She was a woman who held her opinions firmly, and she had made no secret of them. Even if she did return, Walter was not sure how he would receive her. Most of the time he thought of Eileen with tenderness; remembered the way she would look at him, or her laugh, or the unself-conscious way she knelt down and dug in the dirt of this very garden to spare an old woman; but there were also times when he could not think of her without anger. Not on his own account, he told himself; Eileen had made him no promises, and he could lodge no personal grievance against her. He was angry because he knew that Michael was unhappy. His former pupil wrote to him a couple of times per month, telling of his studies and his life in the city. On the surface the letters were cheerful enough, but Walter could sense unhappiness from the plaintive requests to be remembered to various neighbours and friends (Miss Cecilia Hayter being singled out for such attentions more often than anyone else). More troubling was the return of the symptoms that had driven the Gilbrides to Somerset: the constant cough and the occasional difficulty in breathing. Michael was not a young man who should live in a city for more than a few weeks at a time. These letters were the ones that most drove Walter's irritation with Eileen. If she must run away, why must she drag her brother with her--or take him to such a sickly place? Walter shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his greatcoat and stalked the bare garden, his boots punishing the cold ground and the tails of his coat swirling round his legs. Soon he felt a trickle of sweat at his hairline, and his breath came heavy and fast. He collapsed onto the green-painted bench--the placement of the bench suggested by Eileen, his treacherous memory reminded him--and after a moment, the anger dissipated and he could laugh at himself. He could deny his feelings for Eileen all that he wanted, but if they did not exist, she would not have the power to make him so angry. He supposed that his affection for her would fade with time. Others might speculate that another young lady, intelligent and pretty and amusing, might captivate him, but Walter's own imagination could not admit that possibility. When he allowed himself to see his future, it was one of unrelieved bachelorhood, living quietly in his parsonage, doing good in his parish. To a wounded heart, it was not an unpleasant vision. It promised peace, if not balm. A bird sang in the rosebush behind him; he turned in time to see it take flight in a blur of movement. It was the same rosebush where Eileen had shown him the bit of green--had it been only a year ago?--that presaged spring. Something on the bush caught his eye, and he stood, propelled by an inexorable curiosity. He reached for the branch and drew it to himself gently. There it was, unmistakable: a bud of moist green, just like the one Eileen had shown him, proof that this bleak cold would end. Spring would follow winter, and summer in its turn, and the garden again would drowse, alive and colourful and scented, under a hot sun. Walter felt something break open within him, like thin ice shattering. He was flooded with warmth that traveled from his chest outward through his body until it tingled in his fingers and toes and left him trembling. Hope blossomed forth, as a rose would soon blossom on this bush; his heart expanded with it. No longer would he speculate on a future alone. Hope had returned to Walter Musgrove, along with her sister Faith, and he could understand Eileen a little better. Her heart, wounded by the loss of her father, required time to repair itself. Her affection for him would come to life again, as would this garden that she had tended so lovingly; he no longer doubted that. There was a season for everything in its turn. He had only to keep hope, and nurture faith, and wait. "I cannot possibly attend a ball, Siobhan. I remind you that I am in mourning." "My dear Eileen, your father, God rest his soul, has been gone for more than six months. No one expects you to shut yourself away. Wear black ribbons if you must, and I know you will not dance on any account, but how often is one invited to meet an earl?" Not for the first time, Eileen regretted her decision to accept Siobhan's invitation to live with her in Dublin. Under any other circumstances, she would never have considered it, but it had come at a time when removal from England was highly desirable to her. It was not long until she wished for a different situation for herself. Michael was thoroughly miserable; sick half the time, and sullen when he was well; it would be a relief to see him off to Cambridge in the autumn. Siobhan, a distant cousin, was kind and friendly enough, and wanted nothing more than to find an eligible husband for Eileen, but her ministrations fell upon stony ground. Eileen wanted only to be left alone. However, Eileen agreed to attend the ball in honour of this earl and countess whom she had never heard of, because she knew that she could then beg off any such invitations for at least a fortnight. Thus she found herself in a lavender-coloured ball gown, half-mourning that made her look pale and washed-out, waiting in an endless receiving line to make a grudging curtsy to her ladyship and planning to spend the rest of the evening hiding in the host's library. At last it was her turn; Siobhan eagerly brought her forward, but Eileen never made her curtsy. She stared at the Countess in astonishment as Siobhan said, "Ma'am, may I present my cousin, Miss Gilbride?" Her ladyship said, "Miss Gilbride and I are already acquainted." "Indeed!" Siobhan cried. "Eileen, you did not tell me that you were acquainted with Lady Dalton." "Perhaps she has not heard of my marriage," said her ladyship with an amused smile. "By her expression, I judge that to be the case." Eileen gathered her wits and said, "I did not know, ma'am. Please accept my best wishes for your happiness." "I do accept them," said her ladyship with the same amused smile. "When I have greeted everyone, Miss Gilbride, I will find you. I have something to tell you about a mutual acquaintance." Eileen sank into a seat along the edge of the main ballroom. Several gentlemen asked her to dance, but she automatically murmured, "Thank you, I do not care to dance," to each one. They were mostly fortune hunters, anyway; she had discovered upon her arrival in Dublin that word had traveled quickly of the fifty thousand pounds she had inherited upon her father's death. She watched the dancers, her mind spinning at the fact that the woman for whom she had given up Walter Musgrove was in Dublin, and married to another man. Gwendolyn took her time finding Eileen; she opened the ball, naturally, the candlelight catching on the diamonds that cascaded from her neckline and her ears and wrists and fingers. Her dress glittered as well. Eileen could not help but remember another diamond necklace, another glittering dress, and another ball, where she had opened the ball, where she had danced with her own love--and the hungry way he had watched Gwendolyn, even while leading Eileen through the set. The thought made her angry, but also recalled the sweet pain of the moment she had shared with Walter later that evening--when he had kissed her hand and called her his friend. It was a precious moment, and yet one that she had associated with this usurper. Eileen had no doubt that the mutual acquaintance that her ladyship wished to speak of was Walter, and she waited, ready to fling herself upon any bit of information about him as a stray cur upon scraps, hating herself for not leaving as soon as she recognized the former Gwendolyn Clay. Her ladyship took her time. The musicians had played two full sets before she made her way to the corner where Eileen was seated. "What, all alone?" she murmured in amusement. "You should dance, Miss Gilbride." "I am in mourning, your ladyship." "So I see. Well, I shall not dictate the terms of your bereavement to you." "Your ladyship had news of a mutual acquaintance." "All in good time. Possess your soul in patience. Is not that from scripture? I forget. You always had such a genius for that sort of thing." Eileen did not take her bait, but remained silent, watching the dancers. Gwendolyn smiled. "Very well. I see I cannot discompose you, and it was rather heartless of me to try. I did not look to meet you here, but as we have met I see it as the workings of Providence. You have been put in my way for a purpose, I think, to give me the opportunity to play Lady Bountiful. You see, I left Walter Musgrove in Somerset pining for you, and I cannot stand still for it." "I am afraid that I do not understand you." Her ladyship's voice took on a sharp edge. "Coyness does not become you, Miss Gilbride." Eileen said in tones of heavy irony, "I crave your ladyship's pardon." Gwendolyn's eyes lit up with amusement. "That's better, my dear. I begin to understand what Walter sees in you. Give him no quarter, for though he loves you, he shall run roughshod over you if you let him. That is the price we pay for loving him." "I have no intention of allowing Mr. Musgrove to do so," Eileen replied from behind gritted teeth. "Excellent. May I then expect to hear from my Somerset correspondents that you have returned to Uppercross?" "Correspondents? Village gossips, you mean." "Village gossips make the best correspondents of all; but you have not answered my question." "I have no plans to return to England at present." "At present? Then, perhaps in the spring? When the parsonage garden will require your ministrations?" Eileen could not help a surprised glance at Lady Dalton. "Your correspondents are well informed." "I would have no other kind; and you still have not answered my question." Thoroughly discomposed, Eileen cried, "Why are you doing this? You have your husband. Why must you meddle in my life, and Walter's?" Gwendolyn's face changed; the brittle cynicism drained from her eyes. She looked younger and more vulnerable. "Yes, I have my husband; and this is the last thing I can do for Walter. I give him to you without prejudice, Miss Gilbride. He loves you, and misses you. I believe that. You should believe it, too." A handsome, well-dressed gentleman approached them. "Am I to have a dance with my bride tonight?" he asked Gwendolyn. She smiled up at him with a tenderness that surprised Eileen. She could almost understand how Walter could have loved this woman. "You above all, my love. Miss Gilbride, may I present my husband to you? Dalton, Miss Gilbride was a neighbour in Somerset." "Your servant, ma'am." His lordship bowed over Eileen's hand. "May I congratulate you on your marriage, sir?" "I thank you. I hope the neighbourhood has forgiven me for taking Gwen away." "Any such loss is always felt in a small neighbourhood, my lord." Gwendolyn rose and took her husband's arm. Her eyes met Eileen's, and she smiled with unaccustomed warmth. "It was very good to see you again, Miss Gilbride." "And you, my lady." As the Daltons began to walk away, Eileen called impulsively, "Lady Dalton, is there anything I can take to Somerset for you? Any message I can carry to--our mutual acquaintance?" Gwendolyn turned, and her eyes, green and lustrous in the candlelight, met Eileen's once again. "No, I thank you, Miss Gilbride. I have no message to send." She took her husband's arm, and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. May Day was warm but drizzly. The men of Uppercross were tolerably cheerful despite the weather, for in the words of their leader, young Mr. Charles Musgrove, the Uppercross football club were mudders. They always did better in the muck than Lower Barstow could do on dry land. Charles directed his troops dressed in his oldest shirt and the most tattered of his breeches, which his wife impudently observed were not in much worse condition than the least tattered. For the first time, he wore more than one ribbon upon his sleeve; both pink, one removed from his wife's bonnet, the other from his daughter's hair. The ladies whose favours he bore watched from beneath an awning set up near the side of the pitch, designed to keep the intermittent drizzle from driving them away. Marianne, now able to toddle about, had to be watched carefully so that she did not follow her father upon the field. Walter had not meant to wear any ribbon, but a sudden memory had compelled him to rummage through a drawer until he found two faded ribbons tied together. He had cut away the red one and discarded it without a second thought, and tied the blue one around his arm. When he arrived at the pitch, Charles looked at the ribbon, and then at his brother's face, and said nothing. Then his gaze moved past Walter and widened in surprise as Walter felt a tap on his shoulder; he turned to find Michael Gilbride smiling at him. "Substitution," was all he said. Walter exclaimed and clapped the young man on the shoulders. "Good Lord, Michael! You're even taller! Where did you spring from? When did you get back?" Michael answered neither question; he only grinned and said, "Eileen's waiting for you. She said you would know where." Walter looked at Charles, who was also grinning; he said, "You've been substituted. Best get off the pitch." He took off at a run, without a backward glance. He did indeed know where Eileen was waiting. He paused outside the parsonage, regretting the threadbare old clothes that he was wearing and wondering if he should not perhaps change, but in an instant decided not to delay their reunion. He pushed open the door into the garden. Eileen looked around, and their eyes met. "The sun has come out," he said. She blinked, looked up at the threatening sky, and shook her head. "My Eibhlín has returned." His voice broke with emotion. "It's been a cold, dark winter without you, love." She flushed. "What you must think of me, sir--of my abominable behaviour last autumn--I have come to apologize, and beg your forgiveness, with no expectations." "I accept your apology, on one condition: that you never leave me again." "No; not if you wish me to stay." "I do." He strode across the distance that separated them, seized her hands, and kissed them; then he took her in his arms and welcomed her properly. After a moment, Eileen whispered, "Walter, darling, I love you, but I cannot breathe." "Forgive me." He released her. She reached up and touched the ribbon, looking at him quizzically. "Is this--" "Yours, from last year? Yes. There is none other that I'd wear." Her lip trembled, and her words rushed out in a confused tumble. "I did not expect--I did not know what to expect, but I had to return. I had to see you, to explain. You see, my father--it was too much, too soon!" "It doesn't signify, love. You are here now." "I went to Dublin looking for a home. I was not there a week before I realized that I had been offered the only home I wanted, and had thrown it away." "It is still yours, if you want it." He took her hand, determined to do the thing right. "Eibhlín Gilbride, I love you with all my heart. I wish I could prove it in some dramatic fashion; if I could slay you a dragon, or hold up a rich man's carriage for a pretty trinket--" they laughed together at this reference to their silly fantasy about Louis the highwayman--"I would, but all I have at my disposal are words. Believe in my love for you; believe in me, and promise to be my wife." "I will." Her voice was husky, her eyes the deepest indigo he had ever seen them, so dark they were almost purple. "I love you, Walter. I have loved you since the beginning. Did you know?" "No." "You treated me as someone worth listening to. The only other man who ever did so was my father. But I never thought you could love me. Please forgive me for my lack of faith." "Forgive me, love. I know my behaviour with Gwen must have pained you." "Yes, but I am feeling well disposed towards her at the moment. It was because of her that I came back here." Walter was all astonishment. "You saw Gwen?" "Yes; she and her husband were in Dublin as part of their wedding tour. I went to a reception for Lord and Lady Dalton, never dreaming that I would meet my former--rival, I suppose you could call her. She convinced me to return. She said--she said it was the last thing she could do for you." Eileen bit her lip. "I have been jealous of her in the past, as you know, but I cannot envy her any longer. Even though she is a countess, I do not envy her. I would only envy her if I thought she had your love." "No, love. She does not." "I know that now." He bent to kiss her again, and they were thus agreeably occupied until they were startled by an indignant cough behind them. Walter released Eileen, and they turned to see Mrs. Wilson staring at them disapprovingly. She squinted at Eileen. "Is that Miss Gilbride, sir?" "Yes, Wilson. What other lady would I be kissing in the garden?" he added with a wink at Eileen, who blushed and protested quietly. "I'm sure I don't know, sir." Mrs. Wilson's tone was still heavy with disapproval. "Miss Gilbride has just agreed to marry me, Wilson." The cook's face instantly cleared. "Indeed, sir! I'm that glad to hear it! Give you joy, miss!" "Thank you, Mrs. Wilson," said Eileen, still blushing and hiding behind Walter. Mrs. Wilson shifted awkwardly. "If you're going to stand out here, sir--I thought you'd be at the match, and I could get the weeding done." "In the rain? Go inside at once, Wilson. I shall ask my father for some men from Uppercross to the do the weeding." Mrs. Wilson went inside, and Eileen looked at Walter ruefully. "You are missing the match. I confess I had forgotten about it." "I do not mind." "Let us walk to the pitch. I would like to see Anne." They stopped first at the graveyard, where Eileen shed a few tears over her father's grave. "I have brought you the son-in-law you wanted, Dad," she whispered as Walter wrapped his arm tightly around her shoulders. "Imagine the stories he's telling," Walter said to her. "Imagine the crowd of celestial raconteurs, each endeavouring to outdo the other. I dare say they've even got a bottle to pass round." Eileen gasped with laughter even as she wiped away tears. "You sound positively Irish, Walter." When she was composed, they walked on to the pitch. "Where are you staying?" he asked her rather belatedly. "With Anne and Charles, though they don't know it yet," she said with a smile. "They have invited me countless times; I hope I don't inconvenience them." "I doubt it, but the Cottage will be a trifle crowded. Michael could move into the parsonage directly. The small room over the library will do for him; plenty of bookshelves." Eileen looked up at Walter and squeezed his arm gratefully, her eyes luminous. The match was in full swing, and Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove had joined Anne under the awning. Walter took Eileen by the hand and presented her to his parents as his intended bride. They welcomed her kindly, and Thomas brought a chair for her. Anne embraced her as a friend and a sister, and placed Marianne on her lap. The child did not remember her godmamma, but her initial diffidence soon wore off, and she eventually gave Eileen an embrace and a rather sticky kiss. Walter got Charles' attention, and was permitted to substitute for an Uppercross man who had turned an ankle and was grateful to limp off the field and retire. The mudders of Uppercross had things well in hand, but as the clouds thickened above, Lower Barstow mounted a determined assault. The spectators were kept in some suspense until Walter scored the goal that put the match out of Lower Barstow's reach. His teammates piled upon him in celebration as the skies opened and a heavy rain began to fall. The spectators scurried for the shelter of various tents and carriages. Walter emerged, covered with mud, from a scrum of celebrants and looked toward the awning beneath which his loved ones huddled. Eileen waved to him, laughing and shaking her head at his sorry state, and he thought his heart would burst with happiness. And Walter Musgrove held out his hands, lifted his face to heaven, and let the warm, cleansing rain wash over him. Finis. ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.