Uppercross
July, 1822

"Walter!" exclaimed his brother. "Leave them be!" He splashed into the muddy water, bending over the crying little girl. "Are you all right, Anne?" he asked. "Come, let me help you." He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Her white muslin dress was covered with mud, the red sash hung bedraggled and wet, and her white stockings and black boots were soaked. The muck had even splashed into her shining dark hair, ruining the pretty red ribbons that held it away from her face.

Elizabeth was crying, too; unlike her cousin, she had managed to avoid falling into the puddle, but her dress was also splashed with mud and her fair curls and ribbons equally besmirched. "I hate you, Walter Musgrove!" she screamed at her brother. "I hope you get--eaten--by a--a--tiger!"

"Small chance that I shall encounter a tiger in Somersetshire," replied Walter with all the wisdom of nearly ten years. "And if you girls are big enough to play with us, then you are big enough not to cry when you meet with an accident."

"I saw you," said Charles darkly. "That was not an accident, Walter. You pushed them into that puddle. You should be ashamed of yourself, teasing little girls in such a way. They are not old enough to defend themselves." He took the girls' hands and led them away toward Uppercross Cottage.

"I suppose you shall tell Papa," said Walter offhandedly. He would rather that Charles did not disclose his actions to their father. Mr. Musgrove turned a blind eye to any disputes between the brothers, under the dictum that boys will be boys, but he was more protective of his daughter and his niece. Anne was spending the summer at Kellynch Lodge, visiting Lady Russell along with her parents and brother and new baby sister. Walter knew that his father would be angry if he discovered that his youngest son had teased his sister's playmate.

"No," said Charles. "I shall not tell." Walter was momentarily relieved. "But if I am asked I shall not lie." Walter watched them as they walked away. Elizabeth's head was drooping and her feet were dragging; even at not quite five years of age, she became upset when her pretty clothes got dirty. Anne had stopped weeping and was gazing worshipfully up at Charles.

They don't know how to have fun, he thought balefully. I will show them. I shall go and have fun all by myself.

He ran into the woods, following a familiar path that he had learned from his father, who allowed the boys to accompany him when he went out shooting. Next month, when grouse season started, Mr. Musgrove had promised that Walter would have his own gun and be allowed to practice. Charles had gotten a gun the previous year and was a good and careful shot, but he preferred to spend his spare time at the stables, helping the grooms muck out the smelly stalls and clean the tack. Walter laughed at his brother's choices, and went with his father, who was always glad to have him along.

But Papa will be angry when he finds out what I've done. Walter already regretted pushing the girls into the puddle. It seemed like a great joke at the time, and he had thought the girls would see the humour in it, but as soon as he saw little Anne fall into the mud, he knew he had done wrong. She was a pretty little girl, good-humoured and always ready for fun, but she was barely five years old, and Papa would say that big boys like Walter and Charles should know better than to involve such small girls in their games. As if Charles would ever tease Eliza or Anne.

Walter ran down a path that he knew led to a clearing containing a small pond. He could see the patch of sunshine on the grass ahead of him; he planned to run out of the woods, yank off his boots and coat, and plunge head-first into the water, sun-warmed near the top and deliciously cool below the surface. He burst out of the trees and was brought up short by a vision.

The vision had long, wavy golden hair and was dressed in white. Walter knew all the children in the neighbourhood, and he knew he had never seen this girl before. His nine-year-old mind did not admit strangers in such familiar settings, so he immediately jumped to a conclusion that an adult would have considered outrageous but that made perfect sense to him.

He slowly walked closer to the vision, not sure if the species was skittish like wild birds, winging away at the first hint of danger. Suddenly the vision turned her head and saw him. She gasped and jumped to her feet.

They stood a few yards apart, staring at one another. Finally Walter found his voice. "Are--are you an angel?" he asked tentatively.

"No," the girl said. "Why did you think so?"

"Because you look exactly like a picture of an angel in a book my Aunt Anne reads to me."

"I wish I were. Then I could be with my papa." As Walter drew closer to her, he saw that his former conclusion was silly. Angels did not weep, and this girl's face was marked with the evidence of tears. She clutched something in her hand that winked golden in the sunshine.

"My grandfather has gone to be with the angels," said Walter importantly. This event had occurred only a few months before. Walter's mamma had wept copiously and spent a great deal of time on the sofa, and Father had said that the boys were not to tease her, that she was sad because she had lost her papa. "He lived at Kellynch Hall."

"I have come to live at Kellynch Hall," said the girl. "I used to live with my grandpapa in Crewkherne, but now I must live with Mamma and her husband."

"I thought your papa was with the angels," said Walter skeptically. "Besides, my cousin Sir William has come to live at Kellynch Hall." He had heard his parents discussing Sir William Elliot. He could not hear everything they had said, but his father had sounded angry.

"Sir William is married to my mamma," the girl explained.

"Then he is your papa," Walter persisted.

"No!" the girl cried. She turned away. "He is not my papa." She began to weep again.

Her tears were troubling. Walter did not mean to make the girls cry, but they always seemed to do so around him. He went to the girl and touched her arm. "I am sorry," he said.

The girl wiped her eyes. She opened her fist and held out something to him. "This is my papa," she said.

Walter took the object that she proffered. It was a miniature in a gilt frame, showing a handsome young man with golden hair and green eyes like the girl's. "I miss him so much," she sniffed. "He went away when I was little, but I remember him. He used to hold me on his lap and call me his best girl." She reached out and took back the miniature.

"I am sure your new papa will be just as nice," Walter said encouragingly.

"I tell you, he is not my papa!" she cried. "I shall never be happy here, never! I want to go back to my grandpapa!" She sat on the bank of the pond, buried her head in her arms, and burst into tears.

Walter sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort her as he had seen Charles comfort Eliza. He did not know what to say, but the girl leaned against him and wept luxuriantly. After a bit her sobs grew less, and finally they stopped. She looked up at him, and despite her red eyes and wet cheeks, she was still the prettiest girl he had ever seen. "I must get back," she said. "They will miss me, and Mamma becomes angry when I stay away for so long. She says she will send me away to school."

"I am going to school," said Walter. "At Winchester, like my brother."

"I am glad that they are sending me away," the girl said fiercely. "I do not want to be here. They do not want me." She stood and wiped her eyes, and put the miniature in the pocket of her pinafore. Walter remembered his manners and stood to say good-bye to a lady.

"It was very nice to meet you," the girl said, holding out her hand. Walter shook it, and she turned and began to walk toward Kellynch.

"Wait," said Walter. She stopped and turned back. "I do not know your name," he said.

"Gwendolyn," the girl said. "My name is Gwendolyn Clay."

"I am Walter Musgrove," he said. "It was very good to meet you."

She smiled at him, and Walter instinctively ran to her and kissed her on the cheek. "I still think you look like an angel," he whispered, and ran toward Uppercross without looking back.

London
June, 1839

Walter Musgrove looked about him and sighed. It never changes, he thought tiredly. The same people, the same mendacity, the same intrigues and gossip. It was here long before I arrived and will be here long after I am gone.

He had come to this assembly, along with everyone in London, it seemed, at the behest of his friend Julian Leverett, whose company he had formerly enjoyed but had lately become onerous. Leverett lived for such social occasions. Like Walter, Mr. Leverett was tall, handsome, and charming, and unlike Walter, he was rich.

"You must come, Musgrove," Mr. Leverett had said. " 'Twill be a famous soiree."

"Indeed," Walter had replied dryly. "And your attendance at this famous soiree would have absolutely nothing to do with the lovely Miss Sarah Wolfe?"

Mr. Leverett's flushed countenance gave Walter all the answer he required. At heart, Walter was a romantic, and this admission warmed him toward the young man. "Very well, I shall accompany you," he declared, and it took many more words than he cared to hear for Mr. Leverett to properly express his happiness.

Miss Wolfe was currently enjoying Mr. Leverett's undivided attention, and Walter roamed the perimeter of the room alone. In previous years, nay, previous months, Walter Musgrove would have enjoyed exerting all his considerable charm on the most attractive young ladies in the room, but tonight his mood did not permit such activity. Of late, his delight in such activities had palled. There must be something more to life than this endless round of meaningless public display!

His brother Charles stood across the room with their parents and sister, who clung blushingly to the arm of her fiancé. Walter had been delighted but surprised by Elizabeth's choice. Mrs. Musgrove had always encouraged her daughter to hold out for a title, but Elizabeth's taste ran more to red and blue coats. Walter had expected her to end up a soldier or sailor's wife, and she always seemed to have admirers both military and civilian, but none whose offers she felt inclined to accept. Then Charles had invited James Leigh to visit Uppercross the previous summer.

Mr. Leigh's regard for Elizabeth had been obvious, but at first the lady was not interested in his attentions. James was not discouraged by her diffidence, and plied her with wildflowers and poetry. One day Walter had been walking in the Uppercross shrubbery when he heard voices; he stepped around a hedgerow and saw James and Elizabeth sitting together on a small bench, hand in hand, the gentleman whispering in the lady's ear. Elizabeth's glowing countenance had clearly indicated her feelings, and Walter Musgrove, hopeless romantic, had smiled and retreated to the house before he could interrupt the lovers. When the engagement of the squire's daughter to the baronet's son had been announced some months later, the malicious gossips of the neighbourhood surrounding Uppercross had sniped that the Elliot pride had been passed from mother to daughter, but Walter was happy in the comfortable knowledge that his sister would marry very much for love.

A hand on his arm brought him back to the present, and he looked down in delight at his cousin Anne Wentworth. "Hello, love," he said, kissing her hand warmly. "I did not know that you were in town. Are my aunt and uncle with you?"

"Yes," said Anne, smiling. "Are you acquainted with my father's good news?"

Walter laughed. "My mother lost no time in advertising her brother-in-law's good fortune. My congratulations, Lady Anne," he added, sweeping into an elegant bow.

It was his cousin's turn to laugh. "The daughter of a knight is not addressed thusly, Walter, as you well know, and besides, his elevation will not take place until September." Admiral Wentworth was to be rewarded for his long and distinguished service to the crown with the title Grand Commander of the Order of the Bath, and his family rejoiced, although the admiral himself suffered no emotion so much as embarrassment at all the fuss.

"Is your family here tonight?" Anne asked him.

"Yes, my mother is busy displaying her future son-in-law to all London, and she even managed to drag Charles away from his books long enough to make an appearance," he replied, watching her carefully. He had long suspected that Anne had feelings for his brother, and he had also noticed Charles' gaze resting on Anne more often than not.

"I will be glad to see Eliza," said Anne noncommittally, her eyes fixed on an undetermined spot in the distance.

And my brother, too, I suspect, he thought, swallowing a grin. "They are standing over there by the pillar," he said, nodding to the other side of the room. "I am sure that they will be delighted to see you as well. All of them," he added, endeavouring to give her a hint, but she did not seem to hear or understand it, and her eyes darted eagerly to the pillar, a small smile gracing her pretty features.

"I must pay my respects to your parents," she said, then turned back to him and laid a gloved hand on his arm. "It was very good to see you, Walter," she added softly, then made her away across the room to where Charles stood.

Walter watched her go with mixed feelings. He had always liked Anne, since they were all children; she was pretty, ladylike but not missish, and had a spark of laughter in her eyes that always made him smile. Walter had entertained some fleeting thoughts to the effect that Anne Wentworth would make him a fine wife, but something had always held him back from pursuit; perhaps he had always known, somehow, that she was for his brother. The romantic in him wondered whether he should give Charles a hint as to Anne's feelings, but he knew instinctively that Anne would not have appreciated his interference, and he was content to let nature take its course. My brother is a simpleton, he thought, watching Anne talking to Eliza, and Charles studiously ignoring them both. One of these days he will wake up and realize that they are perfect for one another.

He continued his circuit of the room, watching the dancers, both those on the dance floor and those engaged in the dance of social interaction. The mammas seeking alliances for their daughters; the impoverished noblemen seeking moneyed wives, even a tradesman's daughter, to save their ancestral estates; the flirtations, the affairs, the gossip, the malice, they all fed the darkness that pressed upon his soul. Why did I come here? he wondered in exasperation. What did I expect to find? Walter decided that he might as well depart; there was nothing for him here, and solitude at the inn was better than solitude in the midst of a roomful of people.

As he made his way to the door, his elbow was seized; Mr. Leverett protested, "Musgrove, you are not leaving so soon! I am astonished. You are depriving all the lovely young ladies present of one of the most accomplished dancers in town!" He laughed and waved his hand toward the other side of the room. "Look there. Dalton's latest bit of muslin can't take her eyes from you, you dog."

Walter's gaze followed Julian's hand, and his eyes met those of a young woman, her hair perfectly dressed and her gown in the latest style, except that the neckline was cut a bit lower than current fashions dictated. She smiled and inclined her head to him. Walter stared back at her in amazement. "Do you know her, Leverett?" he asked.

Julian tittered. "We are not personally acquainted, my dear Musgrove. I have no desire for a dawn meeting with the Earl of Dalton. I understand that he is rather possessive about the lady."

"Are they married, engaged?" asked Walter, still staring at the lady, who continued to smile at him.

"Good Lord, no!" laughed Mr. Leverett. "She is currently under his protection, but there is no permanent alliance planned. Such a match would lay the Dowager Countess in her grave once and for all. She has had one foot there these ten years at least." He took Walter's elbow once again. "Come and have tea with Sarah and me."

"I thank you, Leverett, but no," said Walter, finally wrenching his eyes away from the lady's. "I must take my leave. You will give my best to Miss Wolfe." He resumed his movement toward the door, but yet another hand on his arm stopped him. He looked down in surprise at the Earl of Dalton's mistress.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Musgrove," she said in a low-pitched voice that washed over Walter like a warm bath. "I hope you will forgive me if I presume on a former acquaintance."

"I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, madam," he responded politely.

She smiled; her eyes were mesmerizing, deep jade green with glints of grey. "It is a family connection, of sorts," she said. "My mother is married to your cousin Sir William Elliot. My name is Gwendolyn Clay."

"Oh, yes!" he exclaimed. "Miss Clay, I beg your pardon!" He bowed over her hand. "Please forgive my ignorance. You have not been at Kellynch in a very long time, I think."

"No," she said. "I have lived here in town since I completed my education." Walter did not think it would be politic to comment on her living arrangements. He had heard a great deal of gossip about Gwendolyn Clay, who had acquired a reputation as a courtesan to moneyed and titled men. Walter could well understand why; she was lovely, with masses of golden curls and a shapely figure. And those eyes, he thought. A man could lose himself in those eyes.

They spoke for a time of inconsequential things, and finally Walter said, "I must excuse myself, Miss Clay. You caught me as I was taking my leave."

"The evening is young," she said with a smile. "Can I persuade you to stay if I promise to dance with you once?"

Walter, remembering Mr. Leverett's warning about his lordship's possessiveness in regard to his lady, said only, "That is a temptation indeed, madam, but one that I must refuse, however regretfully. I bid you good night." He bowed and would have turned away, but his sleeve was seized and he was turned about to find himself face-to-face with the Earl of Dalton.

"I would have a word with you, sir," said his lordship, and his unsteady gait and slurring speech alerted Walter that the Earl was intoxicated. He had sufficient social experience to know that such men were dangerous; he must tread carefully.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," he said as deferentially as possible. "I was just leaving."

"I am placing you on warning," said the Earl, thrusting a finger into Walter's chest, "that you are not to speak to Miss Clay. She does not want to be importuned by the likes of you, some--" he looked Walter down and up, contemptuously, "--some farmer from the country."

Walter, who knew perfectly well that he had more education than his lordship and, at the moment, a sight more gentility, nonetheless said, "You are correct, my lord. I beg your pardon. I will leave directly." What is the Earl of Dalton doing at a public assembly, anyway? He must be foxed beyond all reason!

The Earl grabbed the lapels of Walter's coat and pulled until their faces were only a few inches apart. "You will stay away from her in the future. You have been warned. Am I understood?"

"Clearly, my lord," said Walter, turning his face away slightly to avoid the smell of gin and cigars on the Earl's breath. The Earl released him, and Walter walked hastily toward the door, hoping that none of his family had witnessed the encounter. As he reached the vestibule, he heard a feminine voice call his name. He turned and saw Miss Clay, who had followed him in great haste.

"Mr. Musgrove," she said, breathing heavily. "Please allow me to apologize on Dalton's behalf. He knows not what he does when he is in liquor."

Walter smoothed down his rumpled lapels and said only, "It is not your place to apologize for him, madam."

"No," she said. "But I seem to find myself doing so more often than I care to admit."

Walter glanced at her, at those green eyes, and said, "I wonder that you stay with him, then."

"I am leaving him," she said quietly. "He does not know yet. I am going to my brother's house." She hesitated, then said, "I hope that I can persuade you to call on me there."

He smiled. "I am afraid that you would find me disappointing, Miss Clay. I do not have his lordship's extensive financial resources. I am but a younger son, and I have my living to earn." Yet you earn it not, an inner voice reminded him. You have yet to take orders. You have continued to take the allowance your father hands you. You are no better than Dalton and his ilk, for all your fine Cambridge education.

Miss Clay was not embarrassed by the implication of his words; Walter felt the compliment she paid him of not denying her circumstances. "Does that mean we cannot be friends?" she asked. "You once did me a great service, sir. I would offer my friendship in return, poor repayment thought that might be."

"I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage once again, Miss Clay," he said. "What service have I rendered you?"

"You do not remember?" she asked, smiling. "You once comforted a small girl who was desperately unhappy, by a pond somewhere between Kellynch and Uppercross."

"I remember," he said softly, thinking of the angel who had wept in his arms.

"I have treasured that memory for many years," said Miss Clay. "I would return the favour, if I may. There are many who have found comfort in my company."

I am sure that there are, he thought wryly, but said only, "Perhaps I shall call upon you and your brother, Miss Clay." He said it only out of politeness; he had no intention of calling at Henry Clay's house. His reputation was little better than his sister's.

She smiled at him again, and Walter was struck anew by the beauty of her eyes. "I hope that you do, Mr. Musgrove." She curtseyed and went back into the ballroom.

"Miss Clay is at home, Mr. Musgrove, if you will follow me," said the parlourmaid, opening the door to admit him.

Walter went inside, surrendered his hat and umbrella to the girl, and followed her into the small parlour.

"Mr. Musgrove, ma'am," the girl said, then curtseyed and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Gwendolyn smiled at him from behind the pianoforte. "Good evening, Mr. Musgrove," she said. "You find me quite by myself tonight. I am taking this unusual opportunity to practice my neglected musical skills." Her fingers never stopped moving as she spoke; Walter had heard the music through the open windows as he stood on the doorstep, and it had not faltered since. He had spent several nights at the townhouse over the past two weeks, drawn there almost against his will by the memory of glowing green eyes and the lovely woman to whom they belonged. Henry Clay was rarely present, and when he was, he ignored Walter entirely; but Gwendolyn always seemed glad to see him, and sat by him and conversed with him on every subject under the sun, even when the parlour was crowded with admirers and hangers-on. Walter knew that he tread on dangerous ground while in the intoxicating presence of Miss Gwendolyn Clay, but he cared not; her attentions kept the darkness at bay, for a few hours anyway, and he was grateful for that.

But tonight they were indeed alone. She did not seem to feel that it was improper to receive him without her brother present, or her maid.

"Neglect seems to have caused your skills to thrive," Walter said. "Beethoven, I believe?" The music was almost ghostly, perfectly suiting the low lighting of the room and the unusual stillness of the humid night.

"Oh, yes. Piano Sonata Number Fourteen, 'Quasi una fantasia,' although I have heard it called the 'Moonlight' Sonata as well." Her fingers continued to move as she spoke. "I am glad you are here. Would you be so kind as to sit next to me and turn the pages of my music? I have given Jeanne the evening out, or she would have performed that office for me."

Walter rather suspected that she had the music by heart and needed neither pages nor anyone to turn them, but he seated himself on the bench next to her. "You may turn," she said, and he did so; her fingers never faltered. He could not read musical notation and had no idea if she was playing from the pages. When he glanced at her, he realized that she could not be; her eyes were locked on his, a small smile on her lips. "Do you play, Mr. Musgrove?"

"No," he said. "My parents did not consider music a necessary accomplishment for a man. My sister had lessons, but she has never been a great musician. My talents lie more in the field, I am afraid."

"Such manly accomplishments," said Miss Clay. "Shooting, and riding, and jumping horses, I presume?"

"Yes," he said. "But sometimes I wish I had the opportunity to learn music. I am fond of it, but it is rare that I have the good fortune to hear a musician of your skill."

"Would you like to play?" she asked him. "I can help you to do so, quite easily."

Walter laughed. "I would much rather listen to you play, madam."

"And so you shall." She took her fingers from the keyboard and seized his left hand. She passed his arm over her head and around her shoulders. "Place your hands over mine," she said.

Walter manoeuvered himself so that she was between his arms. Her back rested against his chest. He placed his hands over hers, matching them finger to finger, and she began to play. The 'Moonlight' Sonata swelled from the pianoforte, each note dropping like a perfect, round pearl into a still pool of water. Walter had to place his head next to hers, his chin almost resting on her shoulder, in order to see the keyboard. The scent of her hair, musky yet sweet, was all around him.

Her fingers continued to move, along with his own, resting lightly on top; her skin was soft and warm. Walter closed his eyes, relaxed his arms, and let her hands carry his own as the music wrapped around them. And the music never stopped, not for either of them; not when Walter's hands slid from the keyboard; not when his arms enveloped Gwendolyn's waist; not when her hands touched his face; not when she whispered his name; not when their lips met. It did not stop for the rest of the night, that ethereal music; it rose, note by exquisite note, through the warm, heavy air to the moonlit sky, filling the night and haunting their dreams.

Walter sat back in the chair, facing toward the window and the magnificent, red-stained sunrise, and smiled. He smiled a great deal these days; Walter Musgrove, hopeless romantic, was at last wonderfully, gloriously, ecstatically in love.

He had no reason to believe that the object of his affections, Miss Gwendolyn Clay, felt any differently. If other gentlemen had enjoyed her favours before him, that was no matter. Had she whispered the words of love to those gentlemen that she whispered to Walter? Had she covered their faces with kisses and begged them to stay as she had begged Walter just an hour ago, when he had left her bed to return to the inn before his family realized that he had not spent the night there? She could not have done so! He could not doubt her sincerity. There had been genuine tears spilling from her beautiful eyes while she watched him dress, poor girl. Her sobs, although she tried to muffle them in her pillow, had torn at his heart. And yet she did not reproach him for concealing their association from his parents--

My parents. How do I tell them? He knew that his father had no love for the inhabitants of Kellynch, but Gwen had hardly any contact at all with her mother and even less with her stepfather. She could not be categorized with them, could she? His mother would take to her sofa for a fortnight when she learned that Sir Walter Elliot's grandson was to ally himself with a woman of Gwen's reputation, but what did it matter, really? Walter's children were not to inherit Uppercross; that was for Charles' offspring. Walter had no doubt that Charles would marry, either Anne Wentworth or someone else, and produce an heir. Walter had been given an education, but had been otherwise left to find his own way in life. He would choose his wife where he desired.

And he had chosen Gwendolyn Clay. He had not proposed to her, not yet; but every day that he spent thinking of her, every night that they spent together, made him more resolute that he should do so, and very soon. Walter, though a romantic, was prudent as well, and he knew that Gwen would not care to be a country parson's wife. How was he to provide for them? He was too old to join the navy; he had not sufficient funds to purchase a commission in the regulars, and his father had already paid for his education at Cambridge and would probably decline to lay out the funds necessary to purchase his colours. Walter had puzzled over the dilemma, and the more he considered, the more he became convinced that the best choice would be to ask his uncle Harry Musgrove to take him on as an apprentice in his law practice. Harry would acquiesce, of that Walter had no doubt. He was only eight years older than Walter, and was fond of his nephews. Yes, that seemed the best plan. Gwen would have to give up the most fashionable of her dressmakers, and probably her French maid as well; but if Walter was willing to give up the profession for which he had spent so many years preparing, then surely Gwen, who loved him so, would be willing to wear muslin rather than silk and dress her own hair. Yes, that was the best plan. It seemed fortuitous, now, that he had delayed taking orders.

Walter had not chosen the Church as his profession; it had been chosen for him. Mrs. Musgrove thought it unfair that her son should be obliged to pursue a profession at all, but considered the Church suitably refined, even for her favourite son. She loved Charles and Elizabeth in her own rather abstracted way, but with their fair, curly hair and smaller builds, they most closely resembled their father's family. Walter was taller than any of his cousins, except Edward Wentworth, and had sleek dark hair like his mother and her sisters. He was the only one of Mrs. Musgrove's children whom she felt had inherited the Elliot countenance, although a closer perusal of her own mother's portrait, which still hung in Kellynch Hall, would have revealed that the features that graced Walter's handsome face were inherited not from the Elliots but from the Stevensons.

When Walter had attained his Master of Divinity degree, all the education that his father considered necessary for the rector of Uppercross parish, he had not yet been four and twenty years old, the required age of ordination; five months had to pass before he could go before the bishop. Somehow, five months had turned into nearly three years, and Mr. Musgrove had never tried to force Walter into taking orders, although Mrs. Musgrove was not above the occasional hint. But something had always held him back. Walter had not been disinclined to the profession, but he would have felt obligated to change his carefree, bachelor lifestyle a great deal when he took orders, and he had not yet felt prepared to do so. Yes, it was fortuitous that he had waited; if he had been in orders, he would not have accompanied his parents to London, and he would not have met Gwen. It seemed to Walter that the Almighty had revealed His plan, and it did not include Walter Musgrove as one of His ministers.

He would ask her today. Before the sun set that evening, he would claim his lady's hand. Walter smiled once again as the patch of sunlight on the floor slowly made its way toward the chair where he sat, dreaming though wide awake, hearing once again the music of the moonlight.

Before he rang the bell, he made a hasty inventory of his appearance. Everything seemed to be in order; he took a deep breath and pulled, hearing the muffled ringing as though through a mist. Why are you so anxious, Musgrove? You love this woman, you want to marry her. There is nothing about which to be apprehensive.

Hannah, the parlourmaid, opened the door with a smile that turned into an opened "O" of amazement when she saw who had rang. "Mr. Musgrove," she said nervously. "Are you expected, sir?"

"No, Hannah," he said, smiling. "I am here to see your mistress on an errand that cannot wait. Tell her that I am here, will you?"

The girl's mouth opened and closed several times. "I do not know that Miss Clay is receiving callers, sir," she said nervously.

"Never mind," said Walter, pushing his way past her with the easy assurance of the lover. "She will see me, I am sure." He dropped his walking-stick and hat on the table in the passage and continued toward the parlour. "Is she in here, love?"

"Oh, sir--" Hannah called after him helplessly as he reached the open doorway, then stopped in astonishment at the tableaux before him.

Gwendolyn stood before the large, ornately-framed mirror that hung on the far side of the parlour. Behind her stood the Earl of Dalton; he was placing a glittering necklace about her throat. Neither of them was aware of Walter's presence. Gwendolyn preened in front of the mirror, stroking the gems as if they were the fur of her favourite cat. She turned away from the mirror, the eyes that Walter loved so well turned up to his lordship's; the same affectionate gaze that had been directed toward Walter just that morning was now intended only for Dalton. Her arms went around Dalton's neck, he pulled her close, his mouth descended roughly upon hers, and Walter stayed to see no more. He snatched his possessions from the table, walked past the shamefaced Hannah, and left the townhouse, never to return.

Oakmont Park
September, 1839

Walter sat on the bench before the pianoforte, watching Catherine Leigh play. She would play Beethoven, he thought resignedly. Miss Leigh could not be more unlike Gwendolyn, with her raven hair and dark-blue eyes, but Walter could not help but remember the last lady he whose pianoforte bench he had shared.

"Will you turn, please, Mr. Musgrove?" Miss Leigh asked softly. Walter had to strain to hear her rather breathy voice. He turned the page carefully. He had to lean across her to do so, and he caught a whiff of her lavender scent. She exuded innocence, this lovely girl; her white skin, her white dress, her soft voice and scent all spoke of purity and chastity. Those were qualities that Walter craved like a starving man craved a crust of bread, and he had attached himself to Miss Leigh that night almost desperately, despite her obvious preference for his cousin Edward Wentworth.

The pain of Gwendolyn's infidelity had eased over the past three months, but had not entirely disappeared. It was like a wound that had scabbed over but never healed, bursting open with any unwary movement. He still dreamed of her, of the way her skin had felt under his hands, the way her golden hair had tumbled over him as she slept in his arms. He glanced at Miss Leigh, but she was concentrating on the music sheets and did not return his gaze; he looked up at his cousin, who was leaning on the pianoforte, smiling slightly, his eyes never leaving Miss Leigh's face. I cannot blame him, Walter thought with wry affection; he liked his cousin a great deal. He's seen nothing but a boatload of hairy sailors for the past half year. Any reasonably attractive, available young woman would draw his attention. But Walter had known that he had lost Miss Leigh's regard forever when Lieutenant Edward Wentworth, resplendent in his blue coat and gleaming new sword, had entered his mother's dining-room.

And I cannot compete, he thought. Edward Wentworth would one day inherit Kellynch Hall as well as Oakmont Park; although his naval career had progressed at a much slower pace than his father's, the unhappy consequence of peace, there was good reason to believe that Edward might one day be called Admiral Wentworth as well. What young lady would not prefer such a future to a lifetime in Uppercross Parsonage? Especially a young lady raised in a house like Ashleigh Hall. And once again, in spite of every vow to himself that he would no longer think of her, Walter's thoughts turned to Gwendolyn.

And then she appeared, as if his tortured mind had somehow conjured her up. She walked into his aunt's drawing-room with her mother and brother, as casually as she had entered his life that night at the assembly in London. Walter's heart began to beat wildly, and he stood up hastily. Miss Leigh looked up at him curiously.

"Would you like some tea, Miss Leigh?" he asked her in an attempt to recover his equilibrium. She smiled her assent, and he went to the tea-pot and took cups for both of them; by the time he returned to the pianoforte, she was gone. Edward Wentworth had led her away to a dance set that was forming in a relatively empty corner of the large, elegant room, and Lady Wentworth had seated herself at the pianoforte, prepared to play for the dancers.

Walter set the cups down on a table and looked around; Charles had claimed Anne's hand, to his surprise, and apparently to Henry Clay's disgust, and James Leigh, of course, chose Elizabeth for his partner. Before Walter could reach his cousin Sophie, Mr. Clay had spoken to her and was leading the smiling young girl to the set. Walter noticed Edward's lip curl, and Anne's restraining hand on her brother's arm; apparently Miss Sophie's ready acquiescence to Mr. Clay's request had not pleased her siblings.

And that left only Gwendolyn. Walter had a moment of utter panic; I cannot do it. But it would be so unusual for him not to participate in a family dance that such an action would be noticed and remarked upon, particularly by Mrs. Musgrove, who would worry her son until she had an explanation she considered satisfactory. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then turned to Gwendolyn. She watched him, smiling enigmatically. Walter approached her, bowed stiffly, and said, "Would you do me the honour of being my partner for this dance, Miss Clay?"

"So it is 'Miss Clay' now," she said. "You had very different names for me not so long ago, lover."

"Do not call me that," he said between clenched teeth. "I am most certainly not your lover. I would be your dance partner, for my aunt's sake. It is all the same to me if you stand there like a fool."

"That is a difficult invitation to decline, Mr. Musgrove," she said in the same amused tone. "I accept."

Walter took her gloved hand and led her to the set; all eyes were upon him, their expressions ranging from the mocking grin of Mr. Clay to the repressed contempt of Charles. The music began, and Walter went through the steps in rigid silence. Occasionally he happened to catch Miss Clay's eye, and she continued to wear the same expression of mild amusement. How can she smile in that manner? he thought in astonished rage. Hannah had to tell her what I saw. She has to know. And yet she can smile at me like the damned Mona Lisa.

At last it was over. Walter bowed stiffly, then looked around, anywhere but at Gwendolyn. He saw Charles lift Anne's hand to his mouth, then exchange a look with her that spoke volumes. Walter smiled involuntarily; the romantic, though grievously wounded, was not completely vanquished. At last, brother. Godspeed to you.

"A smile," said Miss Clay. Her gaze followed Walter's. "But I do not think it is for my benefit."

"No," he said quietly. "It is not. Good evening, Miss Clay." He would have turned away but for her restraining hand on his arm.

"May I beg an interview, sir?" she asked.

"I cannot imagine anything you could say to me that I would wish to hear."

Gwendolyn paused. "There was a time when we meant a great deal to one another. I would presume on that connection this once. Please, Walter."

Her request, delivered in tones of the utmost humility, struck him to the quick. "Very well," he said, and allowed her to lead the way to the deserted passage.

"How do you come to be here, Gwen?" he asked as soon as they were alone.

She turned to face him, her back against the wall. "As my mother said, we wished to call upon our cousins--"

Walter interrupted her. "How do you come to be in Somerset? You told me that you never went to Kellynch."

"No," she corrected him, "I told you that I rarely went to Kellynch. The anniversary of my mother's birth is next week, and apparently she is feeling a touch of mortality and wanted her family about her. I was tempted to point out to her that it is a great deal too late for such family camaraderie, but I managed to quell the urge." She reached up and caressed his face in a gesture he remembered all too well. "Have you not missed me, lover? I have missed you a great deal."

"Please do not call me that name." Walter's voice had little conviction; he was falling once again under her spell. The nearness of her, her scent, her touch, her warmth, had brought back feelings that he thought he had successfully repressed. He reached out and took a one of the long, golden curls that cascaded to her shoulders, running his fingers down the silken length; mesmerized, he wrapped the lock around his finger, again and again, and almost before he knew what he was doing, his lips were on the soft golden skin of her throat.

"Walter!" he heard a voice boom behind him. He jumped and looked around guiltily to see his brother standing at the far end of the passage, his face a mask of astonishment. "We are leaving," Charles said, then turned on his heel and went outside.

Gwendolyn's hands snaked around his neck. "Come to me tonight, Walter," she whispered. "Come to Kellynch. Jeanne will let you in." She pressed her body to his, her hands in his hair, her mouth on his.

Walter was almost lost again, but finally broke away. "No," he said. "No." He turned away from her, took his hat from an impassive footman standing by the door, and ran after his brother.

Charles stood by the curricle; his astonishment had turned completely to anger. "To conduct yourself that way in our uncle's home! I am disgusted with your behaviour. A gentleman should not take such liberties with young ladies."

Walter had no desire to discuss Gwendolyn with his brother, so he attempted to laugh it off, although there was an element of bitter truth in his careless words: "You know as well as I do that she is no lady. Do not take such a high tone with me, brother." Charles tried to take the reins, but Walter knew that his brother's usual careful horsemanship would be abandoned in his present distress. "You'll lather up the horses, the state you're in. Do not worry, I have not had so much wine that I will drive us off the road."

They drove on for a bit in silence, then Charles ventured, "What of Miss Leigh? She is a much more proper object for your affections."

Walter smiled to himself; Charles could never stay angry for long. Why have I never confided in Charles? No one on earth knows me better. He cautiously opened his bruised heart to allow his brother a glimpse. "What of Miss Leigh? She took one look at Edward's blue coat and I was immediately forgotten. You know how all ladies love a man in uniform. Besides, what can I offer a girl like that, Charles?" he asked pensively. "Edward will inherit Oakmont Park, and Sir William has left Kellynch to him as well. I may have a parsonage someday and a curate's salary to pay, but a wealthy young woman like Catherine will not wish to mortify herself by marrying a country vicar." He sighed heavily. "Unfortunately I like Edward too well to begrudge him her favour. Perhaps he will give me the Kellynch living out of gratitude." Walter surprised himself with his last sentence; he had not consciously thought of taking orders, or of undertaking any profession, since he had found Gwendolyn in the arms of another man. Yes, it is time to get on with my life. I must leave Gwendolyn Clay, and her betrayal, behind me. The only question is: Where does my future lie? Lucky Charles, and Edward, to have their lives mapped out for them, without suffering all this indecision.

"I knew I should have joined the Navy," he muttered, and was startled by his brother's shout of laughter, which rang through the cold night air.

Several birds rose squawking into the blue September sky, startled out of the underbrush by the beaters and the dogs. Walter raised the gun to his shoulder with the ease of long practice, sighted, and pulled the trigger. He dimly heard the echo of his father's shot, almost simultaneous with his own. The birds flew on undisturbed, the barking dogs running after them.

"Bad luck, son," said Mr. Musgrove, handing his gun to Thomas to be reloaded.

Walter handed his own gun to Thomas and accepted a loaded firearm in exchange. The beaters went shouting into the brush once more, disturbing yet more birds, who flew indignantly away. Walter lifted the rifle once again, then lowered it, distracted by a rustling sound in some shrubbery by the small dirt road that wound through his father's land. "Thomas, what is that?" he asked the servant in annoyance.

Thomas went to investigate, and called back, "It's a horse, Mr. Walter. A mare."

"A mare?" Walter walked over to inspect the creature. "Is she one of my father's?"

"No, sir," said Thomas. "She's one of Sir Frederick's. I saw him riding her when he hunted with Mr. Musgrove last."

Walter finally reached Thomas, who stood by the mare. The creature ignored them and continued to graze. A sidesaddle, thought Walter. Anne went riding with Charles--oh, dear Lord, I hope--

"She must have wandered away from Miss Wentworth," Walter said to Thomas, concealing his own more gruesome thoughts. The grave expression on the servant's face indicated that the concealment was not necessary; Thomas had leapt to the same conclusions. "I will go and look for them," Walter added, taking up the mare's reins. He handed the shotgun to Thomas, climbed up on a nearby fence rail, and managed to pull himself onto the mare's back without impaling himself on any of the protruding appendages of the sidesaddle. The single stirrup was much too short, adjusted to fit the petite Anne, and Walter did not bother with it.

"Tell my father that I will see him back at the Great House," said Walter. Thomas nodded and would have walked away, but Walter called him back. "Give me the gun." Thomas handed him the firearm wordlessly and watched him ride away, a crease between his brows; the Uppercross servants were as fond of Miss Anne Wentworth as were the Uppercross sons.

Despite the lack of stirrups, Walter managed to get the mare to a trot; she was a spirited creature and pulled at the reins, and he was hampered by the shotgun he held across the saddle, but he kept her under control. He followed the dirt path toward the Great House, and shortly before he reached the drive he saw two horses; as they drew closer, he realized that one rider was Charles, mounted on that great beast Wilfred, and the other was a grey carrying Henry Clay and Anne.

"Here you are!" Walter cried in relief. "I saw my uncle's horse grazing by the side of the road, and you can imagine how concerned I became when there was no rider." He noticed that Clay was holding Anne rather tightly and that she did not look at all happy about it. He also noticed his brother's rigid jaw and glowing eyes. "What's going on here?" he asked. "Anne, are you all right?"

"The mare was spooked by a fox and ran away," said Anne. "Mr. Clay kindly helped me." Clay grinned at Walter triumphantly. Charles looked as if he were about to explode, and Anne was obviously miserable, struggling in the most ladylike way possible to release herself from Clay's grip. Walter had seen how Clay treated women during his sojourn with Gwendolyn, although he had been too distracted by his own concerns to properly digest it at the time, and he was sickened to imagine Anne in such degrading circumstances.

"You have had quite a shock, cousin," he declared, attempting to clear the suddenly thick air with a touch of humour. "We must get you back to Uppercross. Perhaps Mamma will move over on the sofa and make room for you. My brother and I can take her there, Clay, you need not trouble yourself."

"It is no trouble," responded Mr. Clay, not loosening his grip on Anne. "We are very nearly there." They were at the foot of the drive.

"You may as well dismount here," said Walter. "I will take the horses to the stable. I espy my uncle Benwick's equipage in the drive, and I've no stomach for Byron and Scott today," he added, pointing toward his uncle's barouche, which had seen better days.

Anne stumbled as she slid from the back of Clay's horse. Clay caught her and held her tightly although she struggled to free herself. Charles was clearly enraged, but to his brother's dismay said nothing.

"Go on into the house," Walter said to Anne and Mr. Clay. "I require a few words with my brother." Mr. Clay offered his arm to Anne, who took it uncertainly, and they went into the house.

Walter grabbed his brother's arm and pulled him aside. "What are you about, Charles, letting Clay manhandle Anne like that?" he whispered. "Upon my word, you are a most unnatural lover. I would have driven him off with my crop."

Charles looked at him in surprise. "You know? You know how I feel about Anne?" he cried. "How could you? I only just realized it myself this day."

"It was obvious to me, brother, but remember I know you better than anyone," said Walter. "I saw how it was last night when you were dancing. I supposed you may need a push, but I'd no idea you would stand back and let another man walk away with her. Especially the likes of Clay."

Charles turned away, his head hanging, and Walter's pique faded at his brother's unhappiness. "What can I do, Walter, call him out?" asked Charles resignedly. "If she likes another man better than me, I would never stand in her way."

Call him out? Depend on Charles to respond so severely! "It would be one thing if she actually did like him better," said Walter soothingly. "I certainly did not stand in Catherine Leigh's way when she showed her preference for Edward. But I'll wager that Anne finds Clay as revolting as we do." Are you blind, brother? She is mad for you!

"You didn't find his sister revolting last night," Charles reminded him.

Walter laughed shortly. "Gwendolyn is a very...obliging girl," he said with a grin. He did not realize that the bitterness beneath his humour was not visible to his more literal-minded brother. "But you can't possibly imagine that I have any serious intentions toward her." Not after what has passed between us.

"Then I wish you would not behave in such an unbecoming manner."

"Don't lecture me, Charles," said Walter. "And don't change the subject. Go in there and claim your lady's hand." He took the horses' reins and started walking toward the stables.

At the stables, he delivered the horses to one of the grooms and turned back with every intention of returning to the house. However, as he walked away from the stables, his eye was caught by the spire of Uppercross Church, standing out amidst the treetops. Walter stood staring at the spire for several long moments, then found himself walking toward it, propelled by some unknown force.

The church door was open, as always; nobody in Uppercross would ever disturb the church. He entered the tiny sanctuary, lit only by the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows installed by his ancestors in commemoration of great events and deceased family members. The names and images of Musgroves past stared down at Walter as he made his way slowly up the aisle to the squire's pew; he could not shake the feeling that they stood in judgment upon him. Are you worthy to lead this parish? they cried. Are you deserving of the heritage we have passed to you? He had to admit to himself that, thus far, he had not been. But he also knew instinctively that it was not too late for him to change his ways. The question was whether he had the fortitude to do so.

He stood by the Musgrove pew, naturally the foremost and most handsome. This had been his vantage point of the building for his entire life. He remembered coming to Sunday service as a boy and sitting in this pew with his grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles. During school holidays, his father's mob of younger brothers and sisters overflowed into the pew directly behind, but as the young squire's son, Walter always had a place in the front. For so many years now, it had only been Walter, Charles, Elizabeth, and their parents; they barely used half the pew, yet the only other worshipers ever invited to share it had been their own house guests. And now Eliza will be gone. But perhaps Charles will bring his wife, and his children. He smiled at the thought of little Musgroves with Anne's delicate features, climbing about the pew and getting into mischief as their father and uncle had before them. And my wife and children? They would be entitled to a place here as well, especially if their father is at the lectern...

His gaze went to the chancel, separated from the pews by a simple wooden rail and gate. Walter walked toward the chancel, took a deep breath, and opened the gate and stepped through it.

From the lectern, the church appeared strange; perhaps it was the absence of light, usually supplied by the candles in the chandeliers. Perhaps it was the empty pews, which Walter usually only saw filled with his neighbors and the villagers. Or perhaps it was simply that his perspective had changed, in many ways. He had never realized that the rector stood physically higher than the worshipers, having to ascend several steps to reach the lectern. Walter looked down on the pews and imagined them filled, faces turned up to him, accepting the wisdom he offered like baby birds taking bits of food from their mother. He had learned doctrine at Cambridge, had studied Scripture and the lessons that the members of the Church of England were told to reflect upon daily, but had never realized the crushing obligation that the rector carried. It was he who would direct those souls in the pews, he who would give them the guidance they needed to follow the laws of God and the Church. Am I worthy of that duty? he silently asked the shades of Uppercross, reflected in the coloured windows along the walls. Can I do this? Or more to the point, should I do this?

He stood at the lectern for some time, his hands tracing over the leather binding of the old Bible placed there, gathering strength from his ancestors, collected here over the course of so many generations. When he finally left the church, Walter knew that no one could prevent him from fulfilling his destiny, not even Gwendolyn Clay; no one, that is, but himself.

Walter walked up to the house, deep in thought, and was nearly to the door when he looked up to see Anne Wentworth climbing into Sir William Elliot's carriage with Gwendolyn just behind her. What game are you playing now, Gwen? he thought angrily. Charles stood nearby, his brow contracted and his eyes glowing greenish-gold. He stared malevolently at Henry Clay, whose gelding pranced impatiently next to the carriage.

Gwendolyn turned her head and saw Walter. She held out her hand and called, "It is good to see you, Mr. Musgrove."

Startled into gallantry, Walter took her gloved hand and helped her into the carriage. He felt something sharp-edged in her fingers, and realized that it was a piece of paper, folded into a tiny square. Gwendolyn took her hand away, leaving the paper behind. Walter immediately closed the paper into his fist--it would not do to enter into an argument with Gwen, not out here in front of his mother--and pulled the fist behind his back, clasped in his other hand.

Charles stood beside the drive, watching the carriage drive away; Anne did not return his gaze. Walter wondered what in the world had happened at the house while he had been woolgathering in the church. His brother finally turned away and moved to enter the house; Walter stood in his path, gazing at him earnestly. Charles pushed past him and went into the house.

You have a nerve, Musgrove, Walter thought bitterly. You want to be the rector of Uppercross, want to guide and assist your parishioners, and you cannot even assist your own brother in his distress. A fine clergyman you'll make.

He went into the house and to his bedchamber, flung himself into a chair, and then remembered the note from Gwendolyn, still clenched in his fist. He opened the tiny paper and read the note, written in Gwendolyn's round and sprawling hand:

Walter love,

Your Gwen

My Gwen indeed, Walter thought angrily. He would certainly go to Kellynch that night. He needed to bring that part of his life to a close, once and for all, before he could begin anew. The decision gave him some relief, and he dressed for dinner in a tolerably improved mood.

He slowed the horse as he approached Kellynch, fearing that the ringing of the horse's shoes on the stones would awaken the household. He approached the door, wondering what to do; he could hardly ring the bell. As he drew closer, however, his problem was solved; the door opened, and a headful of riotous black curls emerged.

"Monsieur Musgrove, sir?" came a hoarse whisper.

"Yes, Jeanne, it is I," he whispered, and she smiled and beckoned him in. Walter tied the horse to the post and followed her inside.

Jeanne led the way upstairs, the light of the candle she carried glancing off the walls. She paused by a door, opened it slightly, and peeked in. "Mademoiselle?" she whispered. Walter could not hear any answer, but apparently she received one that satisfied her, for she pushed the door open and stood back to allow him to pass the threshold, then closed the door behind him.

Walter entered the room, decorated in heavy wallpaper and fabrics that reflected Lady Elliot's vulgarly elaborate taste. He looked around as his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, and did not see Gwendolyn anywhere. He cautiously took a seat in a brocaded and fringed chair not far from the doorway.

After a few minutes, Gwendolyn emerged from a connecting room, her silken nightclothes trailing about her. Walter was amazed, as he had been in the past, how so much fabric could cover her body so ill; however, the sight excited not the desire it had in the past, but only a detached sort of fascination.

"Walter, my darling," she whispered, laying a hand on each of his shoulders and bending to press her lips to his.

Walter moved his head so that the kiss landed on his cheek, then gently pushed her back and stood. "Gwen, I am not here to make love to you," he said quietly. "I am here to tell you that I am aware of your activities to upset my brother's happiness, and that I will not stand for it."

Gwendolyn stared up at him for a moment, then burst into low laughter. "You must be joking, lover. I know not from whence you receive your ideas, but I assure you that the happiness of the Musgrove family is most important to me." She reached up and caressed his face. "One member of the Musgrove family in particular."

Walter turned his face aside and stepped away from her. "I no longer desire your favours, madam. I came here in the hope of appealing to your sense of propriety, although I see now that I was mistaken."

"Walter," Gwendolyn said, no longer laughing. "I have never known you to be cruel."

"You have not importuned on my family in the past. Whatever game you are playing with my brother and Anne Wentworth, you will stop immediately."

She raised her eyebrows. "I am afraid that it is not within my power to end that particular game, sir," she said coldly. "My brother has set his heart on marrying Anne Wentworth, and he has constrained me to assist him."

"Constrained you?" cried Walter. "How can he do so?"

"You forget," said Gwendolyn quietly. "I have a home only by my brother's sufferance."

Walter had never considered that part of Gwendolyn's life. Reflecting on his visits to the townhouse, he realized that Henry and Gwendolyn did not display the affection that Walter shared with Elizabeth. The Clays could be in the same room and barely acknowledge the other's presence. And Gwendolyn was correct; her home depended upon her brother's charity. Walter did not like to think of the requirements that Henry exacted upon his sister in exchange for his benevolence. "But Sir William gives you an allowance, does he not? Could you not hire your own establishment, perhaps engage a companion to live with you?"

"Sir William has informed Henry and me that he will no longer give us an allowance," she said quietly. "You see how that changes my position in my brother's household. He inherited the townhouse from our father when he reached his majority, and owns it outright, but I received nothing. Believe me, Walter, I have no desire to interfere in your brother's happiness with Miss Wentworth."

"But why has Sir William denied you now, after assisting you for so many years?"

"I suspect," she said with a wry smile, "that it had something to do with the fact that he has found my bed-chamber door locked during this visit."

Walter stared at her, a horrifying realization dawning upon him. "Gwen, you don't mean that he--" he stopped, unable to complete the thought.

Gwendolyn looked at him in surprise. "My dear, whom did you think first seduced me? Sir William was my first lover, when I was fifteen years old. I assumed that you were aware of our past--" she paused, searching for a word, "--connection."

"The villain!" exclaimed Walter. "To take advantage of you in such a way! You were under his protection, under his roof, his own wife's daughter!" Walter paced the room restlessly. "And where was your famous brother? He should have taken a whip to Elliot in the street. I have a mind to, myself."

"But you have no right," she responded gently. "And do not think that I was an unwilling victim. I took great pleasure in being able to give Sir William something that my mother no longer could."

"You were fifteen years old," said Walter softly, his heart aching for her. "You did not know what you were about, love."

"I knew," she said, just as softly. "Oh, I knew. And if I had it to do over, I am not sure I would do differently." Walter had no answer for this; his new feelings of sympathy for her had flown with her last statement, replaced with resignation and a tinge of sadness. She is debauched, utterly and completely. I can do nothing for her.

Taking his silence for approbation, Gwendolyn changed the subject. "I really invited you here tonight to tell you something very important," she said, smiling at him. "I am thinking of getting married."

Walter actually laughed at this. "Married? What victim have you entangled in your web, Gwen?"

"No victim," she said, still smiling. "I have a very willing partner in mind." She walked up to him and laid her hands on his chest. "I thought a great deal upon what qualities I required in a husband, and I realized that you, Walter Musgrove, encompass every one of those qualities."

"I find that difficult to believe," he responded, removing her hands and walking away from her once again. "I would think that a large fortune would be your first requirement."

"It is desirable," she agreed. "But the most important quality is compatibility. Surely you remember how well we got on together."

I could hardly forget it, Walter thought wryly.

Gwendolyn continued, "You understand me, Walter, as no one else could."

A few months ago, Gwen--nay, only a few moments ago--I would have agreed with you, but no more. The sight of Gwendolyn in Dalton's arms, burned into his memory, was before Walter as he spoke. "Compatibility between spouses is indeed important, but I would rank trustworthiness more highly. And that is why I could never marry you, Gwen." He had turned away from her and did not notice the colour rush from her face at this statement. "How could I marry a woman who would give herself to the first man who dangled a diamond trinket before her?"

Gwendolyn's paleness was replaced with an angry flush. "You dangled no such trinkets before me, and yet I gave myself to you. What does that tell you, sir?"

"It tells me, madam," he said deliberately, turning back to face her, "that you sell your favours mighty cheaply indeed."

"How dare you," she whispered. "I have never asked you for a shilling. And I have never sought anything from you but your affection." She pointed a shaking finger at the door. "You may leave, sir."

"Gladly." He walked toward the door. He paused there a moment, looking back at her, a last bit of regret still preying upon him. "What will you do, Gwen?" he asked her.

She would not face him. "I have made plans," she said quietly. "The Honourable Mr. Westfield has long been enamoured of me. I shall write to him in the morning."

"That moon-faced puppy?" Walter asked indignantly. "You cannot be serious!"

"Why do you think so?" she asked, her voice quiet and steady. "I must do whatever I deem necessary to maintain my situation. You have no right to speak to me thus."

"No," he agreed. "Good night, Miss Clay." He left, shutting the door softly behind him.

Gwendolyn moved to the window, which faced the front of the house, and watched Walter mount his horse and ride away. She had long ago trained herself to not weep in the presence of others, from the first time that Sir William had entered her bed-chamber all those years ago. But by the time that Walter reached the roadway, the tears she had been holding back began to course down her face, and she sobbed as sorrowfully as she had at the age of ten, wrapped in the arms of a boy who grew into the man that she loved.

Walter let the horse drink from the trough, then put him in a stall, carefully returning the tack to its proper place. He put out some hay for the horse, thinking, This is what I have learned from you, Gwen. I have learned how to disguise the evidence of my wrongdoing. God help me.

He unlocked the front door of the Great House and slipped inside. He shut the door quietly behind him and turned to see Charles, standing in his dressing-gown, gazing back at him steadily.

"You were at Kellynch?" Charles asked finally.

"I was. How did you know?"

"I saw Miss Clay hand you a note. I concluded that an assignation was being planned." The disappointment in his brother's eyes cut Walter to the quick.

"It wasn't what you think," said Walter. "I was breaking it off." He could hardly tell Charles of everything that had happened. Perhaps, some day, he would be able to do so, but not tonight.

Charles, of course, could not understand his brother's words. "Breaking it off?" he cried. "What sort of connection did you have with Miss Clay that needed to be broken off?"

Walter sighed. "Let us go into the library," he said. "A brandy would be most welcome." Despite Charles' disapproval, Walter knew that he would be a sympathetic listener, and his brother's sober consideration was exactly what Walter needed to order his confused thoughts.

In the library, Charles poured drinks for both of them. Walter took a gulp and threw himself into a chair by the dying fire. Charles seated himself nearby.

Walter stared at the glowing embers in the fireplace and tried to sort out what he should tell his brother. "It started earlier this year, when I was in London," he said. "We met by chance. Gwendolyn travels in a very fast circle, which I found exciting at first. She was very attentive, and I allowed myself to be flattered and petted into a more intimate relationship." He took another sip of his brandy. "Tonight she told me that Sir William is cutting off her allowance and her brother's. Apparently the baronet has tired of paying for their intemperate lifestyle."

"I can't say that I blame him," said Charles. "Henry Clay is perfectly capable of earning his own living, and had Miss Clay guarded her reputation more carefully, she might have married quite comfortably."

"She still thinks that she can," said Walter. He chuckled ruefully. "The silly bit of muslin thought I would marry her."

"Does that surprise you? After you acted the libertine?"

'Twas not I who seduced her first! "I and half the rakes in London! You have heard the talk about her, Charles, don't deny it."

"I have," Charles admitted. "She made an advance at me this afternoon."

Walter looked around at him in astonishment, entertained in spite of himself. "At you? Really? The look on your face must have been priceless! What I would have given to see it!" Although Gwen would have been more surprised had he taken her up on her offer!

Charles was not amused. "Anne may have seen us together," he said. "I can only imagine what she must be thinking about me."

Walter sighed, annoyed once again with Gwendolyn Clay and all her ilk. "I'm sorry. I had not considered that. Don't think too badly of Gwen, brother," he added, surprising himself somewhat. "She hid it well, but she is near desperation. She had some wild plan about a viscount's son who is enamored of her. I recall seeing him hanging about the townhouse, a round-faced puppy with shirt collars so high they looked like blinders. He will suit her admirably," he added bitterly. The brothers sat quietly for a time, watching the fading embers in the fireplace and sipping their drinks.

"I wonder if Henry Clay is in similar hopeless straits," said Charles thoughtfully. "It would explain his sudden attention to Anne."

"Anne's fortune is not large," Walter agreed. "But it would give him a stake and the means to settle any pressing debts." He was pained by his brother's troubled face. "I would not worry, though. Anne is a clever girl. I don't think she will be taken in by a fortune-hunting rogue." No, Anne loved Charles, of that Walter was convinced.

He set his glass down with a sudden resolve to fully unburden his heart. "Charles," he said, turning toward his brother earnestly, "Do you think Father would give me the Uppercross living if I took orders?"

His brother stared at him in astonishment. "Of course he would. Dr. Smythe has been eager these five years to retire and join his daughter in Brighton. He has only been waiting for you to take orders. What has convinced you to do so, after all this time?"

"Do you remember yesterday when I asked you if all this marrying business had persuaded you to follow suit? Well, I must confess that it has affected me." Walter stood and went to the brandy-bottle to refresh his drink. He took a sip and returned to his chair. "I cannot deny that I have spent the years since I finished at Cambridge in idleness and self-indulgence. My parents have never forced me to seek an occupation, and it was certainly not my preference to do so. There were many pleasures to be had and I was loath to give them up. However, I have long felt that something was missing in my life. Last night at my uncle's house, when I saw Catherine Leigh, I knew what was missing."

"You are in love with Miss Leigh?" asked Charles quietly.

"How can I tell?" asked Walter pensively. "I cannot even attempt to court her. I have no fortune, no title, no promised inheritance. I have nothing to offer a woman but myself. Until now, that has not been important to me. But I have come to regret my conduct of late. I am ready to make myself worthy of the regard of a girl like Catherine." He turned to his brother, who was smiling broadly. "Don't make fun of me, Charles, I can't stand it from you. You pattern-card, I know I should have been imitating your exemplary behavior all these years, but you should rejoice that your reprobate brother has seen the error of his ways."

"But I am delighted!" cried Charles, leaning over to slap his brother's back. "This is a turn of events that I confess I had not expected, but my pleasure is no less for the surprise. By all means speak to Father, but you should probably wait until all the excitement is past."

"I will," promised Walter. "As soon as Eliza and James are off for their wedding tour, I will speak to Father and Dr. Smythe. Hopefully that good man can be prevailed upon to convince the bishop that I am a proper candidate for the church, despite my chequered past." He drained his glass and set it on a table. "I am off to bed, brother, with a much lighter heart, now that I have unburdened it," he said. He looked at his brother, his heart overflowing with affection. "Thank you, Charles. I meant it when I said that I wish I had patterned my behavior on yours."

Charles was silent for a long moment. "I have never set myself up to be a pattern-card," he said finally. "But I am glad that you consider me such, if it has aided your decision."

Walter grinned at his brother and exited the library, his mind already awhirl with plans and hopes.

"Turn about," Elizabeth commanded her brother.

Walter sighed and turned about obediently. "I feel ridiculous."

Elizabeth looked him over with a practiced eye and reached out to pluck an imaginary bit of lint from his vestment. "Well, you look splendid." She turned him toward the looking-glass. "See for yourself."

The first thing he noticed--the first thing anyone would notice--was the elaborate embroidery worked on the vestments in gold and silver and coloured threads. Mrs. Musgrove had commissioned the vestments herself, insisting that Sir Walter Elliot's grandson and namesake would be properly turned out for his debut as rector. Walter had unthinkingly gone along with her plans, and when the vestments arrived, had gazed at them in utter horror. His own taste was rather spare and elegant; he was privately rather pleased that clergymen were expected to wear black at all times. There was no time to order new vestments before Charles and Anne's wedding, and as Anne had specifically requested that he perform the ceremony, he was forced to wear them.

However, as Walter became accustomed to his reflection, he realized that his sister was correct; he looked splendid. On a smaller, less handsome man, the vestments would have been ridiculous indeed, but on Walter they sat perfectly. Well, if this does not go off well, I cannot place the blame on Mamma, he thought wryly.

The previous weeks had been a whirlwind of activity at Uppercross. The Cottage had been turned inside out, painted and papered and scrubbed in preparation for its new tenants. Furniture arrived by the waggonload, including a pianoforte that the young squire had purchased as a wedding present for his bride. Charles himself was rarely at the Great House, dividing his time between the stables, the Cottage, and Oakmont Park.

Walter had experienced no less a whirlwind in his own affairs. He had gone to see Dr. Smythe two days after Elizabeth and James' wedding and told him that he was prepared to take orders.

Dr. Smythe, still shrewd despite his advanced years, looked at him keenly. "I must say that I am surprised by this sudden discovery of your vocation."

Walter confessed, "I am not entirely sure that I have a vocation, sir."

The older man laughed. "In my day it was not considered necessary for a clergyman to have a calling. That he was an educated and a gentleman was sufficient to recommend him to the Church. Your parents are of my generation; they have provided you with a way to make your living, but you have never seemed especially desirous of following the path they have laid out for you."

Walter squirmed a bit under the rector's keen gaze; he felt like he had as a boy, when he had run away and hidden in the woods rather than attend Sunday afternoon service. Dr. Smythe had questioned him just as closely on that occasion, but his kindness was always evident, and Walter had left the parsonage chastened and relieved that he had escaped eternal damnation. "I know that in the past I have not conducted myself as a clergyman should," he said softly. "But I am endeavouring to change my ways."

"Use not the Church as a crutch, son," said the rector kindly. "It is commendable that you wish to better yourself, but that is a matter between you and your conscience. You cannot hide behind your position as a priest. You will still be a man, fallible and open to temptation."

"I know that," he said. "But I would like to try."

The rector smiled at him. "Very well," he said. "I shall do what I can for you."

Bishop Prescott had been obstinate, insisting that Walter should spend a year as a deacon, as most young clergymen did, before taking the vows of priesthood. Dr. Smythe intervened; Walter well understood his new duties, he said, and the year of training would not be necessary. The bishop had at last grudgingly agreed, and when Walter tried to thank the rector, he had waved his hand dismissively.

"Ephraim Prescott and I have been adversaries these forty years," he laughed, "since we were boys at Oxford. He was a loud advocate of the Clapham sect and was furious every time I was able to refute his doctrinal arguments, which was nearly always. He has grown no less loud over the years, but you see it has not affected his career."

Walter smiled at the older man, who had been the rector of Uppercross for nearly twenty years, taking the position when Walter's uncle Charles Hayter had inherited Winthrop and given up the Church. "I am surprised that you have never received such a promotion, sir."

"Oh, I never aspired to anything greater than the living of Uppercross," smiled Dr. Smythe. "This is a delightful village; my family was happy here, both my late wife and my children. And your father manages his properties admirably." Walter knew that his father's involvement in the estate's management was minimal at best, but he remained quiet. "I've no taste for politics, son, be they secular or clerical. And now," he added, taking up a Greek text, "it is back to work for you. We must ready you for your examination."

A few very short days later, Walter went to Wells to be examined. Bishop Prescott, a burly man with a fringe of grizzled hair around his ears, regarded him scornfully. "I have no love for those who view the Lord's work as a sinecure. Caldwell Smythe can sing your praises for days, but I have seen your sort a thousand times. The Church needs good men, men who will work hard and glorify the Lord, not incompetent younger sons who will leave their duties to underpaid curates while they idle about in watering-places."

Walter could not help wondering why a man who could afford to idle about in watering-places would bother to take orders if he did not have a calling, but said only, "I assure you, your eminence, that I have given long thought to taking this step, and I feel that I am prepared to do so. I did not take orders when I was of age because I was not fit. I do not consider the position a sinecure, sir."

Bishop Prescott stared at him from beneath bushy eyebrows. Walter gazed back at him steadily, not allowing his anxiety to show in his expression. Finally the older man looked away, then began firing questions at him in rapid succession. Walter answered every one, his confidence gaining with each correct answer.

One week later he was kneeling before the bishop in the cathedral. The older man's ham-like hands descended heavily upon Walter's head as he intoned, "Receive the Holy Ghost for the office and work of a priest in the Church of God, now committed unto thee by the imposition of our hands. Whose sins thou dost forgive, they are forgiven; and whose sins thou dost retain, they are retained." And that quickly, Walter was a priest. Only a week, an hour, before he had been an ordinary country gentleman, known mostly as a decent rider, an excellent shot, and charming to the ladies, and now he had been given rights and powers that made his head swim. While at Cambridge he had read some of the writings of the Roman historian Tacitus, including reports of the rituals performed by the ancient Celtic druids; Walter could not help but think that the pagan priestmakings, with their pain and blood and sacrifice, had the advantage of making one feel as though one had truly earned the right to such power.

That had been only a little more than a week ago, and it was time now for Walter's first official act as rector: the marriage of Charles and Anne, a match which he had once attempted to promote and was now obliged to solemnize. Nothing could make him happier than to be the agent that brought together these two people whom he loved, and who belonged so indisputably together.

His thoughts flew back to the night of his sister's wedding, when he had walked out onto the Great House verandah for a bit of air--and perhaps to escape Gwendolyn's presence, which he could not ignore--and had stumbled upon Charles and Anne in a passionate embrace. He knew his brother well enough to understand that Charles would never take such a liberty unless he had spoken and been accepted; there was a second's stab of pain, of desperate and terrible envy of his brother's joy, which had immediately given way to sincere and abundant happiness. And then, when Anne had learned that Walter would be in orders before the date of the wedding, she had asked him to perform the ceremony. Charles had added his petition, and Walter had been unable to say no, truly touched and honoured by their request.

Elizabeth was still fussing with the back of the vestments, and finally Walter shook her off. "I do not want everyone saying that the priest's vanity held up the ceremony, Eliza. It is not my wedding, after all."

"No, but we can't have you disgracing the family, either." She gave one last tug and said, "Now you are perfect."

"Not quite," he said ruefully, grinning down at her.

"Well, as close as you shall ever get." She smiled up at him, her dimples deepening as her white teeth flashed.

Walter looked over his sister critically for the first time since she had arrived at Uppercross a few days earlier; he had been too overwhelmed by his own affairs to spend much time with her, although he was glad that she had volunteered to help him with his vestments before the wedding. She was wearing a sophisticated and expensive-looking gown, which he did not remember seeing amongst her wedding-clothes; James must have purchased it for her in London. She looked very much the wealthy young matron, a state that suited her well. "Marriage agrees with you, love. Are you happy with James?"

"Ecstatically so."

"Good. And now Charles and Anne! Who would have thought they would marry?" he could not resist adding, although he had long known of their mutual affection.

"I would," Elizabeth laughed. "Anne's been in love with Charles for ever so long! And he has always been mad for her. He just needed time to become accustomed to the idea, the way I needed time to become accustomed to the idea of being in love with James."

Walter stared at her. "You knew that they cared for each other, and you kept it to yourself?"

Elizabeth tilted her head to one side and said, still laughing, "Dearest, sooner or later you will begin to understand that I know everything that goes on in this family. Which reminds me," she added, "I am glad that you have thrown off that Gwendolyn Clay. She is not the woman for you. I shall keep my eye out for a proper girl, one who will take good care of my brother," brushing away a last wrinkle, "the rector of Uppercross." Walter could only stare at his sister in astonishment. He would never have imagined that Elizabeth, good-natured and warm-hearted and yet whimsical and frivolous, had such potential for perspicacity.

"Well, dearest, you are suitably magnificent and yet should not outshine the bride, which is the proper place of the clergyman at a wedding. I must find my seat or I shall miss Anne." She reached up and touched his cheek. "Be not anxious, brother. I know Anne and Charles are glad to have you lead them through their vows."

"Thank you, love," he whispered, pulling her into an embrace, clumsy in the swaths of his flowing garments. "I hereby apologize for every puddle I pushed you into and every time I pulled your hair or teased you."

"Apology accepted." She kissed his cheek and left him with a last squeeze of the hand.

As she exited the sacristy, Delbert Stock, the curate, entered. He already wore his vestments, although the faded and carefully-patched articles had nowhere near the magnificence of the pastor's. "It's time, sir," he said to Walter. "They're waiting for you." Walter took a deep breath, released it, and walked out, Delbert trailing closely behind, carrying the prayer book.

Walter felt as if every eye was riveted on him; he could only bring himself to look at Charles and Edward Wentworth, standing by the rail, both of whom were grinning widely.

"Lovely gown," whispered Edward as he arrived at the altar. "You must give me the name of your mantua-maker, cousin." Charles snickered, his head down, so that he would not burst into braying laughter at his own wedding. Delbert frowned at them, snorted, and lifted his chin haughtily.

Walter ignored them, although he was secretly rather entertained by Edward's teasing. His courage boosted by this impertinent greeting, he was able to finally look out at the assembly in the pews; all familiar faces, friends and family and neighbours. His mother and father, smiling proudly (his mother weeping prodigiously at the same time); his aunt Wentworth in the other forward pew, her eyes shining as she gazed upon her nephew, resplendent in his grand vestments.

And then the door to the tiny vestibule opened and Sophie Wentworth began to walk down the aisle, and all attention flew to the back of the church. A moment later Sir Frederick Wentworth entered, smiling broadly, his eldest daughter on his arm. Walter watched his brother's face, transformed with love and pride as he gazed at the woman who would soon be his wife.

Anne was beautiful indeed. She wore a wine-coloured silk gown highlighted with fringes of elaborate white lace and a long, gauzy veil, edged with more lace of the sort that Walter had learned from Gwendolyn was a product of the ingenious lace-makers of Brussels. A wreath of pink roses, so pale they were nearly white, rested on her head, anchoring the wispy white length to her hair. She carried a bouquet of the same roses, tied with a froth of ribbons and lace. When they reached the altar, her she smiled up at her father and slipped her arm from his, taking her place beside Charles. The bride and groom exchanged smiles full of love and anticipation. Walter felt his own heart ache for a moment; That I had someone to look at me so! He wrenched his attention back to the task at hand and turned to Delbert, who had the prayer book ready, opened to the proper page. He took a deep breath and spoke.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony..." He became more comfortable as he continued, even managing to smile at his brother as he said, "Charles, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

Charles smiled down at Anne. "I will."

"Anne, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

Anne's face was glowing, her smile reflecting her beloved's. "I will."

Walter continued, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

Sir Frederick stepped forward and placed Anne's hand in Walter's, who in turn placed it into Charles' hand. "Charles, please repeat your vows after me," he said softly. "I, Charles, take thee, Anne, to my wedded wife..."

Charles repeated the words, his baritone voice full of emotion that carried to every corner of the church, "...to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

He kept grinning down at Anne until Walter hissed at him, "Release her hand, Charles." His brother jumped guiltily and did so, to some soft laughter from the assembled onlookers.

Anne took up Charles' hand in her turn and repeated her vows, her soft voice spreading warmly over the congregation: "I, Anne, take thee, Charles, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth."

Walter nodded to Edward, who produced a thin gold band and placed it on the open prayer book. Walter handed the ring to Charles, who placed it on the third finger of Anne's left hand, repeating his brother's words: "With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

The bride and groom knelt before Walter, and he prayed for them, and never had he uttered a more heartfelt petition; he wanted more than anything for these two people whom he loved so well to be happy together, and to have a long life full of blessings and love. He sincerely felt his good fortune at being the agent by which they were joined, and the happiest moment of his life was when he joined their hands with his own and said, "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. Forasmuch as Charles and Anne have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." The joy in his brother's eyes, and in Anne's, now his sister, caused Walter to bow his head for a moment, too overcome by emotion to continue. But at last he lifted his head and finish the ceremony, and was sufficiently comfortable that he was even able to observe Edward exchange a smile with Miss Catherine Leigh. Perhaps my services will again be required before long, he thought in some amusement.

And then the service was completed, and they all signed the register, already filled out in Mr. Stock's painstakingly neat yet childish hand. Charles came to Walter while Anne was signing, and took his hand. "Thank you, brother," he said softly. "I shall remember this day always, and the part in it that you undertook so well."

"It was my privilege, and my pleasure," said Walter, shaking Charles' hand. "And now you had best see to your bride."

Charles grinned broadly and claimed Anne from Mr. Stock, who was making quite a fuss over her, and led her outside, where a chaise waited to carry them to Oakmont Park. Walter started for the vestry to change but was stopped by his still-weeping mother.

"Oh, Walter," she sniffed, "that was such a beautiful ceremony! I always knew you were meant for the Church. I am so proud--" she could not continue, but sobbed into her handkerchief.

"Goodness, Mamma," said Walter, embarrassed. "Do collect yourself."

After a few gulping breaths, Mrs. Musgrove was again able to speak. "You don't understand," she said in a little-girl voice. "Eliza left me, now Charles, and you will be moving into the parsonage. All my children are gone!"

Walter smiled to himself and folded her into an embrace. "We will still be very close by, Mamma," he said, patting her back soothingly. "Charles and Anne will be at the Cottage, and I will be just down the road at the parsonage. I remember when we lived at the Cottage you complained about how our aunts and uncles were always coming over from the Great House. And Eliza and James will visit often. I'm sure you will see us as much as you ever did."

"It will not be the same," she sobbed into his magnificent vestments, making a large damp spot that Walter regarded with some distaste. "The house will be so empty! I'm so used to you and your brother and your sister coming and going, running up and down the stairs, arguing and laughing and calling to one another. It just will not be the same."

"I promise to come over to the Great House every day to shout and stomp about," he said lightly. "Will that help, love?"

His mother looked up at him, caught the twinkle in his eye, and burst into rueful laughter. "I suppose I am being ridiculous. Forgive me, Walter."

"You, ridiculous, Mamma? Never." He kissed her and released her. "But I must change before you make these wonderful vestments unfit for use."

She was immediately concerned for the garments. "Oh, yes, do," she said. "Your father and I will hold the carriage until you are ready."

"Thank you," he said and hurried off to the vestry before she could detain him any longer.

Walter leaned back against the cushions of the large arm-chair and sighed contentedly. The wedding breakfast had been abundant, and he had found himself unusually ravenous and had partaken heartily. When they finished eating, the guests had retired into the large, elegant drawing room, where the unmarried young ladies present took turns at the pianoforte. Content to be passively entertained, Walter allowed his gaze to wander about until it was arrested by the sight of Sophie Wentworth surrounded by a group of young men, some in blue coats. Sophie seemed thoroughly delighted with her position; as Walter watched, one of the boys attempted to seize her hand, and she struck the offender's arm lightly with her folded fan. She did not seem put out at all by the boy's impertinence, but smiled coquettishly up at him through her eyelashes. How many times have I seen Gwen do the same thing? he thought angrily. And after my brother took his life in his hands to protect her from ruination!

The day after Walter's ordination, Charles had turned up at breakfast with bruising around his cheek and eye. Walter had assumed that his brother had suffered a riding accident, and was delighted with the opportunity to tease him. "Charles, you dog," he cried, leaning over to seize his brother's chin and turn his head in order to inspect the contusion. "You will be married in less than a sen'night; could you not wait that long to force yourself upon Anne? But it is good to see that my future sister can defend herself against such ungentlemanly behaviour."

Charles did not respond to this impertinence, but only gave Walter a baleful glare.

"Father," said Walter, addressing Mr. Musgrove, who sat at the other end of the table with his dish of tea, "I do believe that today is one of Charles' difficult mornings. What say you?"

Mr. Musgrove's eyes twinkled at him over his tea-cup. "All appearances support your theory, son. You have my leave to tease him into a better humour."

Charles pushed back his chair, muttered, "I shall be at the stables," and stalked out of the room.

His brother and father raised their eyebrows at one another, but did not comment further; the young squire was occasionally bad-tempered before noon if he had not gotten sufficient rest, and they were both inclined to attribute Charles' mood to that cause. Then Mrs. Musgrove came fluttering in, all excitement. "Where is Charles?" she exclaimed. "I have just had the most astonishing report from my maid!"

"Charles went to the stables," replied her husband, his brow furrowed. "What kind of report, Mary?"

Mrs. Musgrove had stopped before the table, and cried, "Oh, bother that cook! She has not made my toast!" She rang the bell impatiently and ordered toast from the maid that responded.

When the servant was gone, Walter prompted his mother, "What report, Mother? Is everything well with Charles?"

"Oh, yes, everything is quite well. You will never guess what he has done! It is so heroic!"

"No, Mother, I cannot guess, and apparently you are taking great joy from keeping Father and me in suspense."

"Well, Walter, if you will give me a chance, I--" the servant reappeared with the plate of toast, and Mrs. Musgrove laid a finger across her mouth. Walter exchanged an impatient glance with his father; her maid knew, why should she think the other servants were not informed as well?

The door finally swung shut behind the girl, and Mrs. Musgrove said in a stage-whisper, "Sophie Wentworth tried to elope last night with Henry Clay, and Charles stopped them! He took a horse-whip to Mr. Clay in the public street! Have you ever heard anything so gallant?"

Walter was all astonishment. Charles flogging Henry Clay! He knew the worth of servant's gossip, but knew that there must be some truth in it as well. He was appalled at the thought of his gentle, bookish brother fighting the cruel and malevolent Clay. That must be how he came by that bruise. He could have been killed, a week before his wedding! What in the world was he thinking?

Mrs. Musgrove was still speaking. "Apparently Frederick had to pull Charles away from Mr. Clay. The Wentworth coachman saw the whole thing and told the cook, who told the scullery-maid, who was here this morning to fetch some butter, and my Martha heard all about it. Oh, I long to see Charles, and tell him how proud I am of him! I never would have thought he was capable of such an action!"

"Don't be silly, Mary," said Mr. Musgrove. "You know Charles would do anything he could to help one of the girls."

"I will go to the stables," said Walter, draining his tea-cup and rising. "I want it from my brother's mouth. I trust not servants' gossip." He took his hat and greatcoat and strode outside, just as Anne Wentworth rode up on Wamba, accompanied by the Admiral's head groom.

"Hello, Anne," cried Walter, genuinely glad to see his cousin. "If you are looking for Charles, you should have gone straight to the stables. Perhaps he will be more sociable to his bride than he was to his family."

"Actually, I was hoping to speak with you," said Anne, looking at him anxiously.

"Of course," said Walter, and helped her down from the sidesaddle. A servant led Wamba away. "You may return to Oakmont Park, Flynn," said Walter to the groom. "My brother or I will see Miss Wentworth home."

"Very good, Mr. Walter," said Flynn. He touched his knuckles to his forehead in the way of sailors and rode away.

When they were alone, Anne said, "Has Charles told you what happened last night?"

"No," said Walter. "My mother had some fantastic story from her maid about Charles taking a horsewhip to Henry Clay. My father and I have attributed it to servants' hyperbole."

"In this case, I am afraid that the hyperbole is very close to the truth," said Anne with a sigh. "My sister tried to elope last night with Henry Clay. Charles rode after her on Wilfred, and my father and Edward followed in the carriage. Charles arrived first, and found that Mr. Clay had the advantage of a firearm, so he used the horsewhip in self-defense."

"But Sophie is well?" exclaimed Walter in some alarm. "Clay didn't--" he bit back the words.

Anne gave him an embarrassed smile. "She assures me that her virtue is intact, and I have chosen to believe her. Last night she was all penitence, but this morning she is as bold and careless as ever. That is why I wished to speak with you." She paused.

"Yes, Anne, what is it?" Walter prompted her gently.

"I wish you would talk to Sophie," she said. "To try to persuade her not to be so -- forward. I fear that another man will come along and misinterpret her behaviour. Her virtue may not survive the next such attack."

Walter found it difficult not to laugh aloud at the irony of her request; he, of all people, to teach deportment to a young lady! A new realization dawned: he would often receive such requests now. The thought distracted him from the task at hand; he was unable to think clearly, but Anne was waiting for his answer, her face expectant. "Have you not spoken to her, or your brother, or your parents?" he temporized.

"We have all spoken to her, of course, but she listens not. I ask you this favour in the hope that she would pay more attention to you, as a clergyman. And I would prefer that this not go outside the family."

"Of course," said Walter, no longer able to resist the earnest entreaty in her large brown eyes. "I would be glad to speak to her, Anne." He hesitated a moment, then added, "Where is Clay? I should feel a great deal better knowing that he is not about the neighbourhood seeking another opportunity to importune your sister."

"He is gone." Anne sighed. "One can only hope that his departure is permanent."

"He has no reason to come back here. Sir William has cut him off, and his sister as well."

Anne looked at him curiously. "Yes, Charles told me that you had given him that information. How did you come by it?"

Her question was innocent, and Walter knew that Charles had not told her about him and Gwendolyn. "I was quite friendly with Miss Clay at one time. But no more."

Anne gave him a searching glance, then nodded in comprehension. "I see. I am glad that you have learned about her true nature in time to save yourself."

He could not help smiling at her words. "Fear not, Anne, Gwen is completely gone from my life. It is a requirement for one to exorcise all one's demons before taking orders."

That made her laugh, and he was glad to see her smile. Just then, they noticed Charles walking toward them. "There you are, love! I was surprised to see Wamba enter the stable without his mistress, so I came in search of you."

Anne looked up at him sorrowfully. She gently brushed her finger across the purpling along his cheekbone and said only, "Oh, Charles."

He turned his face away from her touch, scowling. "Do not say anything, Anne. I am well, and Sophie is well, and it is best that we forget the whole incident."

"As if I could forget what you did for my sister."

Charles looked at Walter, embarrassed. "I suppose you know about it now?"

"Yes, and I would rather have heard it from you."

"I will not have it discussed. It is over and best forgotten."

"Tell that to the servants. They are hailing you as a conquering hero. How do you think my parents and I came by the information?"

Anne said, "I will wait for you inside, Charles." She reached up and gently kissed the bruise, then touched Walter's arm, mouthed a silent "Thank you," and went into the house.

When they were alone, Walter whispered fiercely, "What were you about, Charles, fighting Clay a week before your wedding?"

Charles looked at him, surprised. "What else could I have done?" he asked. "I could not allow Sophie to go with him. You must see that."

Walter remembered bruises on the arms and face of Hannah, the housemaid, and said, "No, you are right. But without a gun, Charles? You should have known that he would be armed!"

"I did not think of it," Charles admitted. "If you were there, Walter--if you had seen Anne's face, and Edward's, and my aunt's and uncle's--you would not have thought clearly, either."

"I suppose not," said Walter. "But think of Anne! What would she have done if you were hurt, or worse?" He seized his brother's arm. "Do not be a fool, Charles. You are a very fortunate man to have a woman like that love you so well."

"I know it."

"Good. Then I trust that you will not engage in any more battles with the likes of Clay." He released Charles' arm and said, "And now I would like to hear your version of last night's events rather than the scullery-maid's, if you are so inclined."

Charles took a deep breath and related the story in flat tones. "And then my uncle arrived and told Clay to begone and trouble his family no more. And Clay drove off in a post-chaise." He hesitated, and added, "I am not proud of my actions last night, Walter. I gave in to my lowest emotions, anger and hatred and envy. And there was no reason for it."

"I find nothing in that recitation of which to be ashamed. Clay is an animal and deserved to be treated like one." Walter did not realize the vehemence of his words until he noticed Charles gazing at him keenly.

"I suppose you would know," he said simply.

"Yes," said Walter, unwilling to elaborate.

Charles hesitated, then said, "Walter, were you--did your feelings for Miss Clay run very deeply?"

After a pause, Walter replied, "At one time, yes, they did. But those feelings ended when my eyes were opened to her true character." The picture of Gwendolyn with Dalton was before him again, and he pushed it away angrily.

"You have such a capacity for love, Walter. It will take an extraordinary woman to fully deserve it," said Charles quietly. "Now, I have neglected my fiancée enough for this day. I think I might suggest a ride, since her horse is here. Will you join us?"

Walter, momentarily stunned by his brother's casual words, finally stammered out a negative reply, and Charles patted his arm and went into the house.

Recalling that moment, and thinking of the injury his brother had suffered, the evidence of which he still bore on his wedding day, a physical symbol of the danger in which he had been placed on Sophie's behalf, Walter could no longer stomach watching his cousin flirt so outrageously. He walked over to the group and said, "Good day, gentlemen. You will forgive me if I take my cousin away for a private word?"

Sophie looked up at him flirtatiously. "You want to be alone with me, Walter? I am not sure that I should trust you."

Walter gave her his most charming smile. "Why, Sophie, you have nothing to fear from me. I merely wish to discuss family business."

Her eyes traced him down, then up. She smiled and said, "Of course. Gentlemen, you will excuse me?" They scattered before her as she took Walter's arm.

They went into a small, empty sitting-room. Walter shut the door and turned to find Sophie standing rather too close to him. "You are a sly one," she said, laughing. "Family business, indeed! I had no idea that you admired me, Walter."

He deliberately stepped away from her. "Family business, indeed. Your sister asked me to speak to you. She is concerned about your behaviour with young men. After the contretemps of last week, and after the display I just witnessed, I can see why."

"Oh, Anne!" she said scornfully. "Now she is married she will be insufferable. I have assured her that I shall not elope. That does not mean that I cannot talk to men."

"Of course not," said Walter patiently. "But when you talk to them, you must maintain a ladylike mien. They will take their cues from your behaviour. If you are demure and proper, you will earn their respect. If you act the slattern, they will treat you as such."

Anger flashed in Sophie's eyes. "As you treated Gwendolyn Clay?" she countered, then laughed at the look on his face. "Oh, yes, Walter, I know. Henry told me all about you and Gwen. You have no right to lecture me, sir."

"Yes, my behaviour with Gwen was wrong," he admitted. "But I saw the error in my ways and I have corrected them. I will not take advantage of any other woman. But if Gwen had not made herself available, I would not have taken advantage of her in the first place."

Sophie tossed her head and waved a hand dismissively. "Gwen is a ninnyhammer. I shall not give myself to any man without my marriage-lines, I assure you. Even Henry--he tried to sweet-talk me into letting him--but I would not. Not until we were married."

"Clay was willing to wait because his main object was your fortune. You are fortunate that you did not tease him, or some other man, beyond his capacity to resist. Your high ideals would not have protected you then, I assure you."

Sophie stared up at him defiantly. "I know what I am doing."

"You little fool," said Walter angrily. He strode over to her and seized her hands, his face close to hers. "Do you not know what you did? You placed your father and your brother, and my brother, in a dangerous and difficult position. Did you seriously expect them to stand by and watch you throw yourself away on Henry Clay? Did you not realize that they were bound to protect you and your honour, not only by the conventions of society but because they love you? Be glad that they were not forced to fight Clay. I may not have had my brother's wedding service to perform today, but his funeral. Or your father's, or your brother's. Would you have liked that, Sophie? To be wearing bombazine and crepe instead of that pretty silk? To see your father, or Edward, lying in their coffin in that drawing-room, instead of your sister in her wedding-gown?"

She was crying uncontrollably by then. "Stop," she said, sobbing. "Stop, Walter, please. I did not mean it. I did not think."

"No, you did not," said Walter, releasing her. "But do think of that before you flirt with one of those puppies out there, or anyone for that matter. Think of your father or Edward on a cold field at dawn, facing off with pistols at twenty paces. Even if they were not killed or injured, being forced to flee to the Continent. You would never see them again. Think of that, Sophie. And remember what I said."

"I will," she nodded, gulping, her face wet with tears.

Walter took pity on her. "Very well," he said. "Now, pull yourself together. Have you a handkerchief?" She did not, and he took out his own and handed it to her. She scrubbed her face, and even the residual redness of her eyes and nose could not dull her beauty. Walter sighed to himself; he was sure his harsh words would keep her from disgracing her family for this day at least, and perhaps a little longer, but it would be a constant task to keep the bounders at a sufficient distance so that her head was not turned.

"Do I look all right?" she asked, innocently.

"Yes," he said, sighing again. "You are quite presentable, Sophie."

She smiled at him, not coquettishly this time, but in a friendly way. "I shall think about what you said," she added.

"I hope that you do."

Sophie nodded and left the room. Walter did not follow her, but sat down heavily in the nearest armchair and sighed. He placed his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, oppressed by the growing realization that this rector business was going to be a great deal more complicated than he had first thought.

Many thanks to Karen Lee for checking this chapter for, um, fishiness. ;-)

Uppercross
June, 1841

Charles waved the fishing pole back over his head, careful not to snag the line on the trees that lined the side of the stream, and cast in a smooth, graceful motion that was the result of both aptitude and many years of practice. The fly dropped precisely in the middle of the pool, and he grinned in delight. "I hope you observed carefully, Walter. That was a perfect cast."

Walter smiled to himself; Charles did not care much for hunting, and thus was not quite as good a shot as his younger brother, but he was definitely the superior angler. "I can watch you cast all day, Charles, but I shall never do it so well as you."

As if in confirmation of his statement, Charles' fishing pole suddenly bowed, and all his attention was turned to reeling in his catch. A few moments later, a good-sized trout was thrashing on the end of the line, only to be unhooked and unceremoniously dropped into the creel carried by Thomas. It was Charles' sixth large trout of the day; Walter's own catch, a single smallish chub, seemed rather embarrassingly pathetic beside his brother's, but he would not grudge Charles his enjoyment for the world. It was enough to be out in the summer sunshine, in his brother's company.

At another time of his life, Walter would have been in town at this time of year, enjoying the last few weeks of the season until shooting began in August. His parents were there now, and had invited him to come along, but he had declined, as he had declined their invitation the previous year. He gave the responsibilities of his position as his excuse; his father's approving smile had made Walter rather uncomfortable, as he knew in his heart of hearts that he avoided London for another reason entirely. Gwendolyn was in London, and that way lay the destruction of all he had built over the past--was it already nearly two years since he had seen her? Walter sighed heavily and re-cast, trying to make his motion as effortless and elegant as his brother's and failing once again. Even the passage of two years had been unable to completely eliminate Gwendolyn Clay from his thoughts.

She had left Kellynch a few days after Elizabeth's wedding, and he had heard nothing of her since. Kellynch stood empty, and had for some months; Sir William and Lady Elliot had departed on a pleasure-tour of the Continent, which was just as well, for no one at Uppercross save Mrs. Musgrove cared for them at all. Walter could not be in the presence of Sir William with any degree of comfort, knowing how he had misused Gwendolyn, and Lady Elliot was a constant reminder of her daughter.

The sun beat down on them mercilessly, and the air was unseasonably hot; the trees did not provide sufficient shade so close to the water, and the brothers had removed jackets, waistcoats, and neckcloths, rolled up their shirtsleeves, and unbuttoned their shirts at the neck. Thomas, ever the good servant, was appalled by such ungentlemanly behaviour in the squire's sons, but limited his disapprobation to raised eyebrows and the occasional click of the tongue. As he accepted the latest catch from Charles, he ran his eyes down and up his raiment, wet and disheveled, and clicked his tongue yet again. Charles exchanged a grin with his brother as Thomas retreated to the shade, shaking his head.

Charles had blossomed astonishingly since his marriage to Anne. He had always been a good-natured and pleasant young man, but bookish, and this facet of his disposition had become more apparent after he came down from Cambridge. He preferred to spend the bulk of his time with his horses and his books, and was never entirely comfortable in company; his nature had turned inward, somehow, so slowly that none of his friends realized it. Only Anne could draw him out, bring back the charming, funny, outgoing Charles whom Walter knew so well but had not realized that he missed.

The change was not just in disposition. Charles took a more active interest in the management of the farm and estate; in fact, the angling expedition originally had been planned for the previous day, but he had felt it necessary to ride out to visit one of the tenants. Until recently, Charles' attention toward the estate had been confined strictly to the stables; their father left matters largely in the hand of his able steward, and his heir had seemed inclined to follow his example. But now, more often than not young "Mr. Charles" spent his days among his tenants and labourers, listening to their concerns and helping wherever it was in his power to do so. Walter attributed this mainly to Anne's influence. She took seriously her position as the young squire's wife and was always at the disposal of the villagers. She carried food to the sick, made clothing for the newborn, sympathized with the mourners, and read to and wrote for the illiterate, all with calm competence and a serenity that was an exact copy of her mother's. The villagers of Uppercross worshipped her unashamedly. Even the rector had been affected by her influence; lately, Anne often found her brother-in-law in one or the other of the cottages, comforting or counseling or helping however he could. He was surprised at the simple gratitude of those to whom he extended his hand, and even more surprised at his own enjoyment of such activities.

Lost in his thoughts, it took a moment for Walter to become aware that his brother was watching him critically. "You should really fish another pool," Charles told him. "You need a deeper pool, where the trout like to hide. Uppercross trout are very intelligent, you know. It takes all the angler's wiles to mislead them."

Walter looked at his brother askance. "They are fish, Charles," he said patiently. "They have not the wit to respond to human tactics. No animal does. They simply have an instinct for survival that they employ to save themselves from their predators."

"On the contrary, Walter. Observe." Charles pointed to a still pool, surrounded by rocks that directed away the main flow of the stream. He made another graceful cast, and the fly slipped below the surface of the water. Less than five minutes later, another large trout was dropped into the creel. "That pool has always been lucky for me," Charles added. "The trout like to hide there. Perhaps you would like to try it?"

Walter cast, suffering his brother's constant instructions, and managed to get the fly to sink down into the pool, although not with the grace and ease of Charles. Almost immediately he felt a tug on the line and watched in amazement as the tip of the pole began to bend toward the water.

"You have a strike!" cried Charles. "Reel it in, Walter! Reel it in!"

He obeyed, gripping the pole tightly and stripping in line, which gathered in a rapidly forming coil at his feet. The fish fought gamely, and he had a difficult time, but within a very few minutes a large trout was pulled free of the stream, thrashing for all it was worth. Thomas splashed into the stream and grabbed the line. "That's a fine fish, Mr. Walter!" he exclaimed, grinning happily as he dug the hook out of the creature's mouth. "The biggest one of the day, I'll wager!"

"I would not take that wager, Thomas," said Charles, coming over to inspect the fish. "You are quite correct, I think. Depend upon my brother to outshine me!"

Walter grinned involuntarily, proud both of his accomplishment and his brother's praise. "I would not have caught it without your help," he said, but Charles waved off his protests.

"I did not catch the fish, Walter, you did. I am gratified if my suggestions were helpful to you, but the glory is all your own. Come, we have sufficient fish for our dinner, and it is time we returned to Uppercross. My wife will think I have run off."

They dressed themselves, gathered their tackle, and trooped back to the village. As they neared Uppercross Cottage, Charles turned to Walter and said, "You will come in for a time? Anne would like to see you, I am sure."

"Of course."

Thomas went off to the kitchen to clean their catch, and the brothers went around to the front of the cottage. Music spilled from the drawing-room windows as they came around the front. Charles grinned and said, "We are in for a treat!" He paused outside the front of the cottage, where two huge rose-bushes bloomed, their perfume hanging heavily in the warm, humid air. He considered the bush and chose a particularly fine blossom, then pulled out his knife and sliced the flower from the bush, leaving a long stem and several leaves. He quickly stripped off the thorns and returned the knife to its sheath, then grinned at Walter again and beckoned him into the house.

The music swelled as they walked down the passage to the drawing-room. Anne sat at the pianoforte facing away from the doorway and was unaware that they had entered. The music continued gentle yet fast-paced, a demanding piece that she played expertly. Charles stood in the middle of the room, smiling at his wife. Walter's gaze was drawn almost involuntarily to the portrait that hung over the fireplace opposite the instrument. It had been painted shortly after the wedding, and showed Anne dressed in the wine-coloured gown in which she had been married, seated at the pianoforte, with pink roses like the one that Charles held scattered over the top of the instrument. The artist had done a masterful job, perfectly capturing her delicate beauty and the laughter that was always behind her large brown eyes. The portrait had been Charles' idea, and Anne had agreed under one condition: that he sit for a portrait as well. The result hung over the pianoforte where she could gaze upon it as she played, and showed Charles standing next to Wilfred, one hand on the horse's bridle and one hand resting lazily on his hip; he looked every inch the prosperous young country squire. Walter's gaze traveled from the portraits around the drawing-room; it was fashionably yet comfortably furnished, every piece spotless and gleaming. Anne managed her household with the same quiet capability that she employed with the villagers, and the Cottage, with its homey elegance, had become a haven to Walter in the past months. The only flaw in the perfect happiness of its inhabitants was that Anne had not yet given birth or shown any sign of doing so. Mrs. Musgrove, impatient for an heir, was not above the occasional pointed comment; after all, Elizabeth had presented Mr. Leigh with a son almost a year previously, and was already expecting her second, and she had been married only a few weeks before Charles and Anne. Charles and Anne, to their credit, did not allow Mrs. Musgrove's sometimes biting remarks to trouble them overmuch. If they were to be blessed with children, it would happen in the time appointed, and they had no control over the matter, so why let it concern them? They continued as much in love as ever, and their real friends, including Walter, rejoiced in their contentedness.

Anne finished the piece, and the brothers applauded appreciatively. She whirled around in astonishment, then burst into laughter. "How long have you two been standing there?" she demanded.

"Long enough to hear a delightful performance," said Charles. He approached her and presented the rose with a gallant bow. Anne took it and smiled at her husband; the glance they exchanged spoke volumes of their love and regard for one another. Walter glanced away, feeling that he had inadvertently intruded on a private moment.

"You must be thirsty," said Anne. "You had a hot day for fishing. Shall I order tea?"

"A glass of beer would go down well, love," said Charles. "Walter?"

"Yes, thank you," he responded, taking a seat near the window. Anne rang the bell and ordered the refreshments, and a pitcher of small beer and two glasses were quickly brought in.

Rose, the young maid who had brought in the beer, poured a glass and brought it to Walter. Her hand trembled a bit as she handed it to him, and a tiny amount of the beverage sloshed onto his trousers. "Oh, Mr. Musgrove, I beg your pardon!" she cried, swabbing at his leg with her apron.

"Never mind, Rose," he said, trying to stop her ministrations. "They require laundering anyway; they are all over fish scales." Rose looked at him with large, anxious eyes, and then at Anne.

"Go on, Rose," she said gently. "It is all right."

The girl stared at Walter for a long moment, bobbed a curtsey, and scuttled out of the room. Walter looked up in time to catch Anne and Charles exchange grins, and he knew well the cause of their hilarity. Since he had become the rector of Uppercross, he had become extremely popular among the young ladies of the village. Shopkeeper's daughters who never dreamed of aspiring to marriage with the younger son of the squire were perfectly comfortable with aspiring to marriage with the rector, especially a young and handsome one, and Walter was forced to constantly fend off their sometimes bold approaches. He shifted between lecturing to them and simply avoiding them, but sometimes they still caught him unawares. Young Rose's was one of the female faces that gazed adoringly up at him during Sunday services, although Walter knew she had no idea of being his wife; yet her simple, innocent devotion was more disconcerting somehow. Perhaps because he knew that it was pure and disinterested, and not motivated by avarice. The wife of the rector of Uppercross would enjoy both position and riches, or at least riches by village standards; Mr. Musgrove had given his son a small independence when he took over the living, and the living itself was a good one. Walter lacked not for income; he simply lacked someone to spend it on. The young ladies of the village were well aware of this fact, and they laid out their lures and traps for him often enough to make him tread warily. He sighed and sipped at his drink.

"Did you have a good catch?" Anne asked.

Charles had immediately drunk down half his glass, and sat back with a sigh. "Yes, and Walter caught the biggest fish of the day," he said. "A fine trout, three pounds if it is an ounce."

Anne turned to Walter with interest. "Then I hope you will share it with us," she said. "Dine with us tonight, if you have not a previous engagement. Your catch shall be the first course."

"I have not, and I would be happy to dine with you," said Walter, pleased to be asked.

"Your cook has an easy time of it," observed Charles with a smile. "You rarely dine at home." This was true; most nights he dined at the Great House, or here at the Cottage, or at the home of one of his parishioners, especially those with marriageable daughters.

"Aye," said Walter, laughing. "And my household bills are next to nothing. But can you send some of the fish to the parsonage, Anne? Mrs. Wilson can prepare it for the servants."

"Of course," she said, smiling. "I am sure that my two fine fishermen have brought home more than we can eat. I will send some to the Great House as well. The servants in residence will be glad to have it, I know."

"And to the Browns'," said Charles, referring to his father's steward. "I would not have them forgotten."

"You may depend upon me, Charles," she replied with a smile.

"I know that, love," he said gently.

Walter finished his beer and rose. "Well, if I am to dine with you, I must get rid of the fish smell that Anne has been too civil to mention but that nonetheless clings to my person. You dine at six?"

"As always," said Anne, laughing. "We will see you then."

Charles saw him to the door, and the brothers exchanged parting gibes at one another that sent Walter off in excellent spirits, looking forward to an evening of companionship with his family.

The parsonage was only a quarter-mile from the Cottage, and Walter anticipated a quick walk, but failed once more to consider the determination of the young ladies of Uppercross village. Only a few feet from the front door of the Cottage, he found his path blocked by the muslin-clad form of Charlotte Smedley, whose father owned the village's most prosperous dry-goods store.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Musgrove," she simpered.

"Good afternoon," he said quietly.

She opened her fan and employed it busily. "It is amazingly hot today, is not it?"

"Yes, it is," he said, wondering how to get away from her without being impolite.

"You look quite warm," she said. "You have not been working in this hot weather?"

"I was fishing," he said lamely. "With my brother."

She moved closer. "Indeed? You are fond of fish? My mother was able to purchase a lovely piece of fish today. Will you dine with us, sir? My parents are always glad to see you."

"I thank you, Miss Smedley, but I am already engaged to dine tonight." He tried to sidle away toward the parsonage. It loomed in front of him, in his vision but too far to reach, like an imaginary oasis to a man lost in the desert.

"Then tomorrow night." She took another step toward him.

"I must consult my calendar."

"Very well. I hope you will come to dine with us, Mr. Musgrove. We always enjoy your company," she said, closing the last distance between them and punctuating her statement with a hand on his arm.

He pulled his arm away as if she had branded him. "Forgive me, madam, but I have--pressing business at the parsonage. I trust I will see you at services on Sunday?" he added, hoping that this last would remind her of how she should behave.

"Of course I will be at services," she called after him as he hastened away. "Morning and afternoon!"

Walter managed not to break into a run as he approached his home, and breathed a sigh of relief as he achieved the peace of his own doorstep. He went inside the cool, dark house.

The parsonage was originally a small, neat building, but it had been improved by Dr. Smythe, who had some family money in addition to his income from the living. He had added some rooms to the back of the building to make bedrooms for his children, resulting in a house that was not only commodious but snug and solid. Walter had been quite comfortable there over the past two years, and he could never be lonely, not with his family so close at hand. His only regret was that Dr. Smythe had done nothing to the stone-walled garden area on one side of the house. There were kitchen-gardens in the back, and these were the domain of Mrs. Wilson, but the decorative gardens, long neglected, were wild and overgrown, and Walter had no idea how to go about making them attractive. He drew up half-hearted plans to prune and improve and install benches, but there was always something more important to demand his attention, and the garden continued forlorn and uncultivated.

He was met just inside the door by his housekeeper, Mrs. Brumby. She had been an employee of Dr. Smythe, as had Mrs. Wilson, and he had kept them on when he took over the parsonage, happy to have servants who were familiar with the routines of the house. "Mr. Stock is here, sir," she said. "I told him you were with Mr. Charles, but he would wait. He is in the library." Mrs. Brumby was not overly enamored of the curate.

Walter managed not to smile. "That is all right," he assured her. "I will see him. Will you have a bath drawn for me in the meantime? And tell Mrs. Wilson that I am dining at the Cottage this evening."

"Very good, Mr. Musgrove," she said. "Would you care for some tea, sir?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Brumby," he said, and walked down the hall toward his small library.

Mrs. Brumby trundled off to the kitchen to see the cook. She ordered the man-of-all-work to heat water and draw the rector's bath, and when he went off, she sat down at the table, where Mrs. Wilson had already placed the teapot, cups, and freshly-baked shortbread biscuits.

"The rector said to tell you that he is dining at the Cottage tonight, Mrs. Wilson," she said, pouring a cup of tea.

Mrs. Wilson, a woman of a comfortable size that spoke well for her own good cooking, sat down with a sigh and accepted the cup from Mrs. Brumby. "Aye, I knew it would be so when I heard he went fishing with Mr. Charles. I knew Mrs. Charles would not allow the rector to eat here, alone at the parsonage, poor man."

"Aye, Mrs. Charles is a good woman."

"That she is, Mrs. Brumby, that she is, like her mother before her. The most delightful young woman she was. I remember when she would visit her sister at the Great House before her marriage. We all loved her, ma'am, and her daughter is just like her. Would you care for a biscuit?"

"I would indeed, Mrs. Wilson." The housekeeper selected a biscuit and took a bite. "Delicious, ma'am!"

"I thank you, Mrs. Brumby."

"No one can touch your shortbread, Mrs. Wilson, so I always say. Yes, the rector is dining at the Cottage. I dare say if he were married he would be happy enough to eat at home five days out of seven, but as long as he is single, we will have easy lives."

"Indeed, Mrs. Brumby," said the cook, helping herself to a biscuit. "And there is no telling when he may marry. The rector is a handsome enough man, if I do say so, but there are no young ladies of his station hereabouts. And the poor man won't go abroad to find himself one. He stays here, working himself to the bone, bless him."

The housekeeper shook her head. "And the silly flirts in the village constantly throw themselves at his head. I fear that he will fall prey to their wiles some day."

"I pray not, Mrs. Brumby, I pray not."

"As do I, Mrs. Wilson. But they're bold, forward articles, they are, and the rector's only a man, after all!"

"That he is, Mrs. Brumby, that he is."

"That Smedley chit is the worst of all. I can't count the days I've gone out to meet the mail and seen her hanging in the lane, waiting to pounce on the rector when he takes his walk. The poor man has no peace, Mrs. Wilson, no peace, I tell you."

"Miss Smedley has a handsome fortune, though, Mrs. Brumby."

"Well, all her handsome fortune has not taught her her proper place, now, has it, Mrs. Wilson? To presume to think she can marry the squire's son, even if he is the rector! 'Tis a sin and a shame, that's what it is, ma'am."

"It is indeed, Mrs. Brumby."

The two women shook their heads, munched their biscuits, and sipped their tea, bemoaning the fate of the rector and commenting on the particular deliciousness of the shortbread.

In the library, meanwhile, Walter found his curate standing exactly in the center of the room, turning his hat in his hands. "I hope you have not been standing this whole time, Stock," he commented mildly. "You could have sat down. The chairs are comfortable, I assure you."

"I did not wish to presume, Mr. Musgrove," said Mr. Stock in his peculiar hoarse voice. "Not at a time like this."

Walter stared at him. "A time like this?"

"I am here to offer my condolences on your loss, sir."

A knot of apprehension formed in Walter's stomach. "What are you talking about?"

Mr. Stock stared at him. "You have not heard, sir? I heard it in the village."

"Heard what?" Walter only just managed to keep from shouting at him.

"Your cousin, sir," said Mr. Stock, clearly unhappy to be the bearer of bad news. "He's--he's drowned, sir."

"My cousin?" Edward, he thought bleakly. Oh, God, no! Why Edward? He sat down heavily in the nearest chair while Mr. Stock stared at him unhappily. Anne could not have heard--she could not know, and act as she did when I was at the Cottage. Oh, God, her mother! He struggled to his feet. "I must go to my aunt," he said, then put his hands to his eyes in anguish. "Oh, Lord, what am I to say to her? What comfort can I offer her?"

"Sir?" said Mr. Stock, his brow creased.

Walter stared at him. "My aunt! Lady Wentworth! I must go to her, she will have need of her family--my uncle is not in Somerset."

The curate's confusion was obvious. "I suppose Lady Wentworth would be saddened on such an occasion, sir," he said doubtfully. "He was her cousin, after all. Yes, I suppose she would be saddened."

Now he had to shout. "Stock, what in the world are you talking about? She is his mother, not his cousin!"

Mr. Stock's brow cleared. "Oh, you thought I meant your cousin Lieutenant Wentworth! Oh, no, he is not dead. At least not so I've heard," he added thoughtfully.

Walter's brain was whirling, both with relief and confusion. "Then who did you mean?"

"Your cousin, sir. Sir William Elliot. He and his wife were sailing in a small craft round the Mediterranean, and a storm came on them suddenly and the boat capsized. They drowned. They're dead, sir."

December, 1841

"Well, I do not understand it," said Mrs. Musgrove, munching on her dry toast. "I do not understand why Sir William did not leave Kellynch to you, Walter. It is understandable that he did not name Charles heir, as he will have Uppercross one day, but you are nearly four years older than Edward Wentworth and should have precedence."

"It makes perfect sense, Mother," said Walter tiredly. This was a discussion in which they had engaged numerous times since the baronet's death six months previously. "My aunt Brydges is the eldest daughter of Sir Walter Elliot, and she has no children, so Sir William left the estate to the only son of the next daughter. That would be Edward. Sir William was entirely fair." In this instance, anyway, he added to himself.

His mother had requested that Walter breakfast at the Great House, as his father had planned to go shooting with Sir Frederick and some other gentlemen. Walter was unable to accompany them because of a previously-scheduled meeting with the Uppercross church wardens, and he had agreed to keep his mother company (and spare his father an evening of imagined indisposition, the usual result of what Mrs. Musgrove considered neglect on her husband's part).

"I cannot agree with you, Walter," his mother was saying. "If he were fair, he would have left something for my sons, who are, after all, the grandsons of Sir Walter Elliot as well. And I do not think it terribly fair that a baronetcy must remain in the male line. If Sir William could leave his estate to whomever he liked, why not the title?"

"Sir William had no control over that, Mamma."

"Perhaps not, but in any event it should have been you, Walter, who inherited Kellynch," she added, gazing tenderly at her younger son. "I would so have liked to see you as Sir Walter, master of Kellynch. For you have the Elliot countenance."

Walter had a difficult time imagining himself rattling around Kellynch in all his bachelor splendour, with no more living and little with which to occupy his days. "Elliot countenance or no, I have no wish to inherit Kellynch, nor to be Sir anything. My cousin may have it, and welcome."

Foiled in her first attack, Mrs. Musgrove changed tactics with a dexterity that her naval brothers-in-law would have greatly admired. "And if he was going to split up the estate, why would he give Kellynch Lodge to Miss Clay? And all that money! Ten thousand pounds! And nothing for you, or your brother or sister! My father must be spinning in his grave!"

Walter had his own ideas about why Sir William had provided so well for Gwendolyn, but he kept them to himself. One could hardly fault a man for wishing to assuage his guilt with his final act.

His mother sipped her tea angrily. "I never liked that William Walter Elliot, you know, from the time he came sniffing around my father and my sisters when they first moved to Bath. He had a secretive way about him that I always distrusted, and it was borne out when he ran off with Mrs. Clay. Mrs. Clay! The daughter of my father's solicitor, the mistress of Kellynch! 'Twas an absolute disgrace!" As Mrs. Musgrove had consistently fawned over her titled cousin and his wife while they lived, her protestations after their death were not taken seriously by any of her family. They attributed her outbursts to resentment of the disposition of Sir William's estate, which excluded her offspring entirely, and had long ago learned that it was best to nod and offer agreement in such circumstances while keeping their own counsel. Thus Walter frowned, nodded, and "hmmed" as necessary while his mother railed about the iniquity of the late baronet.

Mrs. Musgrove finally finished her diatribe, and in a querulous voice professed herself terribly fatigued. Walter, ever the dutiful son, suggested that she repair to her sofa and offered his arm to assist her there. He saw her stretched out on the sofa with a shawl cast gently over her feet, and kissed on her on the cheek. "Rest here awhile, love," he said softly. "You will feel better for a nap. You know you always do."

"Thank you, Walter," she said with a sigh. "You are a good son."

"I do try, Mamma," he said as he moved toward the door. "I do try." He went out and closed the door softly behind him.

Finding himself with some time before his meeting with the church wardens, he made his way to the stables, where he found his brother standing in Wilfred's stall, trimming the creature's mane with an alarmingly large pair of scissors that surprisingly did not seem to trouble the horse in the least.

"Good morning, Walter," he said without turning around. "Give me a moment to finish here." He took a last snip and brushed the long, silky black mane. "Does that look even to you?"

"Very much so."

Charles put down his instruments. "You can come a little closer, brother. Wilfred does not bite."

Walter looked askance at the horse, who looked very much as if he would like to render his master's statement untrue. "If you don't mind, I'll stay back here. I declare, that horse despises me." Wilfred snorted in confirmation.

"You are being ridiculous. I confess that Wilfred can be a little--standoffish, but to say he despises you is too much. He likes Anne better than me, and I do not take it personally." Charles rubbed the horse's nose, and the stallion nuzzled his shoulder. "Yes, you like your mamma the best, don't you, boy? That is because she gives you sugar and apples and other sweet trash."

Walter was appalled. "Charles, please tell me that you did not call your wife that creature's mamma."

"Why not? She does."

"How is Anne, anyway? I have not seen her for at least a week."

Charles sighed heavily. "Poor girl, she is feeling very low. She had a letter from Edward. He is staying in Jamaica for the present. She had hoped he would come home to look after Kellynch when he received word of Sir William's death, but he has a good chance of getting his own command soon, and wishes to stay on the West Indian station."

"Anne is from a naval family. I cannot believe that she would wish for Edward to give up his career so young."

"She misses her brother," Charles replied with a shrug. "She worries about him, so far away. And that is not good," he added, shaking his head and speaking almost to himself. "That is not good for one in her condition."

His brother's words alarmed Walter. "Her condition? Is something wrong with Anne?"

Charles looked up in surprise. He stared at Walter for a moment, then relaxed and laughed ruefully. "No, there is nothing wrong. We had not been going to tell everyone until Christmas, but--well, Anne is expecting."

"Expecting?" echoed Walter, not immediately grasping Charles' meaning.

"A baby," his brother supplied helpfully. "In May, she thinks." He shook his head. "I did very well in my mathematics examination at university, as you will remember, but the calculations involved in determining the date of confinement were frankly beyond my meagre comprehension."

"Charles!" cried his very surprised brother. "That is wonderful news! My congratulations!"

His brother grinned. "I thank you. I must confess, Anne and I had pretty much accepted that we were not to be blessed with children, so we are delighted, as you might imagine."

"Have you told my mother and father?"

"No, no one knows except Anne's mother. And you."

"I shall keep your counsel until Christmas, if you wish, but no longer!" said Walter, grinning in delight. "What a wonderful holiday we shall have, brother! Eliza is bringing our nephews to visit, and now this news!"

"Yes, I am depending upon Eliza's visit to buoy Anne's spirits." He swiped a hand gently down Wilfred's nose, then suddenly turned to his brother. "Will you talk to Anne?"

Walter was startled. "Talk to Anne? What about?"

"Try to make her feel better about Edward staying in the West Indies. I have tried, but she just cried more." He leaned toward Walter and dropped his voice. "All she does is cry these days. She says it is the baby making her so. It must be, for that is not like Anne!"

"No, it is not. But I cannot imagine that I could comfort her better than you."

"But you are a clergyman. It will be--different, coming from you."

In his two years as rector, Walter had become accustomed to such requests, based on the simple faith that taking holy orders would bestow special gifts of insight and reassurance on a man. Perhaps it did; however unprepared he sometimes felt to counsel his parishioners, Walter had noticed that his words did much to comfort and instruct those to whom he spoke. The first such request he had received was to speak to Sophie Wentworth about her brazen behaviour, which he had done at Charles and Anne's wedding; it had worked, to an extent, as Sophie was still somewhat flirtatious, but certainly not as forward as she had been previously. Thus he agreed to speak with Anne, although he had no idea what he could say that would help her, and followed his brother to the Cottage.

"Where is Mrs. Musgrove?" Charles asked the housekeeper.

"She's in her chamber, sir," said Mrs. Rudd. "She was feeling poorly."

Charles started up the stairs and beckoned his brother to follow him. They went down the passage to the door of the bed-chamber. Charles opened the door and went inside. A short time later, he came out and said to Walter, "She will see you."

Walter went inside the room, which was dark and warm. The only light came from the fireplace. He could see that Anne lay on the bed, wrapped in a quilt, with her back to him. He walked around the bed and sat on the edge. She was staring at the fire.

"Hello, Anne," he said softly. "Charles told me your good news. My congratulations."

Her eyes moved from the fire to his face. "I thank you. I am very happy about it," at which time her face screwed up and the tears began to flow.

Walter stroked her hair, which hung loose. "What is it, love? Is something wrong? Can I help?"

She shook her head, and a hand emerged from the bundled quilts, clutching a limp handkerchief. "It is nothing. My mother says it is the baby. She said she was the same way and was surprised that my father did not pitch her overboard when she was expecting Edward." The mention of her brother's name unfortunately brought on a fresh bout of tears.

"Are you missing Edward?" Walter asked her, still stroking her hair.

She nodded. "I do not understand why he does not come home! I have never gone more than a year without seeing him before, and it has been nearly two years now! No one expects him to leave the service, but is it too much to ask for a vi-vi-visit?" Her lip had begun to tremble with her final word, and she managed to get it out, but then began to wail in earnest.

Walter waited until the sobs subsided. At last she was calm again, and he asked, "Charles told me that Edward expects to get his own command soon."

"Yes, that would be lovely, wouldn't it?" she said with a wan smile. "Captain Wentworth! It sounds delightful."

"Perhaps he felt that his chances at such a command were better there than here."

"That is not it," said Anne darkly. "I suspect it has something to do with that Catherine Leigh. She must have broken his heart. He acted strangely just before he left, and he stopped talking about coming back in a year. I think that is why he stays in the West Indies. He does not want to take the chance of seeing her in England." Her lip began to tremble again. "Evil witch! I could scratch her eyes out!" She burst into fresh tears, turning the handkerchief in search of a dry spot and finding none. Ever the gentleman, Walter immediately produced his own and handed it to her.

"Now, Anne," he said soothingly, "you know you do not really feel so about Miss Leigh."

"I do," she sobbed. "She stole my brother away from me, more fully than if she had married him! If she had agreed to marry him he would not stay away!"

"You do not know that, love," he cautioned. "You do not know that he proposed to her, do you?"

"No," she admitted. "But he loved her, I know it."

She lay quietly for a time, so Walter decided to change the subject. "How are you feeling, other than the sadness?"

"Oh, I feel well enough. I have no nausea, but I am so tired, Walter! Mamma says it shall pass, though."

"That will be a good thing, will not it?"

"I suppose so. I shall be able to get out of bed, anyway. I am not accustomed to being such an invalid."

"Go over to the Great House. I am sure my mother shall be glad to instruct you."

This had its intended effect of making her laugh, but she soon sobered and grew very quiet.

"What are you thinking, love?"

She looked up at him with an embarrassed expression. "Walter, sometimes I think God is punishing me."

Walter was taken aback by her words. "Why in the world would God seek to punish you, Anne?"

More tears slipped from her eyes. "Because I am a selfish beast!"

"You, selfish? You are one of the most generous women I know!"

She shook her head. "You do not know. You do not really know me." She mopped at her eyes and nose. "I have been so happy, these two years with Charles! And in my heart, I have been happy--" she began to sob again. "I have been happy that I did not have a baby yet and I could keep Charles all to myself and not have to share him with a child. There! I have said it. You see now how selfish I truly am!" She sobbed quietly and would not look at her brother-in-law.

Walter waited for more, but no more seemed forthcoming. "Is that it, love? You think yourself a selfish beast because you love your husband?"

"It is not that simple, Walter!"

"It is that simple, Anne. If you had been blessed with a child and not welcomed it, that would have been an evil indeed. But to enjoy your husband's company and his undivided attention--that in itself is not an evil. And you have said that you are happy about this baby--am I correct?"

She nodded. "I am happy, so very happy! I feel very ready to be a mother. In truth, I have felt so for some time now. I thought that God punished me for my selfishness by preventing me from conceiving and keeping Edward from me."

"Then your punishment must be at least partially complete, for you have conceived." This time she did not laugh. "Dearest Anne, God does not punish us in such ways! He has His reasons for not giving you and Charles a child before now, and for keeping Edward in the West Indies. We are not meant to understand those reasons, just to accept them."

Anne had stopped weeping and was gazing up at him steadily. After a moment she said, "Charles is worried about me, is not he?"

"Yes, he is."

"He is so good to me," she said, her face screwing up again. "He has been so kind and patient--I do not deserve him!" Her wails began afresh; Walter managed not to laugh, and decided that the time was ripe for Charles to step in.

"He is waiting outside," he said. "Shall I fetch him?"

Anne nodded through her tears, and Walter rose and went to the door. He opened it and saw his brother hovering in the passage, his face anxious. Walter beckoned him inside, and Charles stood in the doorway. "Anne?" he asked hesitantly.

She sat up and said, "I am sorry that I worried you."

"Do not apologize," he said, moving toward her. "You are not to blame."

Anne held her arms out, and Charles sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her to him. She clung to him, sobbing, and he rocked her as one would a child, crooning soft words of comfort. Walter smiled and left them, closing the door behind him gently; neither of them noticed that he was gone.

The next day, Walter was labouring over a sermon. He was a popular rector for many reasons, one being that his sermons were generally short, witty, and to the point, but the grateful parishioners had no idea of the time and effort that the rector put into those sermons. He crossed out, blotted, and struggled, and after several hours had something he considered worthy. He took a fresh sheet of paper to make a fair copy when there was a soft knock on the door of his study.

Mrs. Brumby peeked in and said, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Musgrove, but Sir Frederick is here to see you."

Walter smiled and rose from his chair. "Show him in, please, Mrs. Brumby."

A moment later, the door opened again and Sir Frederick Wentworth entered the room. Walter noticed that the older man bent slightly as he passed under the door frame; the habit of a tall man who had spent many years in low-ceilinged ships, he supposed. He held out his hand. "Hello, Uncle Frederick!" he cried, knowing that he would be chastised if he used his uncle's title. "It is very good to see you, sir!"

Walter had always been very fond of his uncle; one of his earliest memories was of sitting on Sir Frederick's knee, grasping at the buttons on his coat and listening to him sing a song which Walter was later able to identify as "Hearts of Oak." It must have been before then-Captain Wentworth had married Aunt Anne--but no, for she was in the room as well, and he recalled Charles lying ill on a sofa--yes, they must have been married already. What a little beast he had been as a small child; he had been pestering Aunt Anne as she tended to his brother, hanging from her neck until Uncle Frederick peeled his hands from her and took him away to amuse him with the song. Such consideration for his wife; yes, they were certainly married, or at least very close to being so.

Sir Frederick shook Walter's hand with a wide smile. "And it is good to see you, young man; you are looking very well indeed."

"I thank you, sir! May I offer you some wine, or perhaps some tea?" The Admiral accepted the offer of tea, and Mrs. Brumby nodded and left to fetch it.

"How may I be of assistance to you, Uncle?" asked Walter when the door had shut behind the housekeeper.

"I am here on a commission from Edward," said Sir Frederick, drawing a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and passing it to his nephew. "He asked me to give this to you, and to wait for your answer, if you will."

His curiosity awakened, Walter broke the seal and read the letter.

Admiralty House, Jamaica
15 September, 1841

My dear Walter,

I hope this letter finds you well as it leaves me. This letter is yet another in the many I have dispatched in the past two days since word reached me of Sir William's demise. As a clergyman, I hope you will find it possible to forgive me if I confess that I have shed no tears over the melancholy event, without reference to any gain I shall have from it.

Walter could hardly condemn his cousin. There had been few tears shed in Somerset over the deaths of the master and mistress of Kellynch. Walter had felt to compelled to offer to perform a memorial service, but no one had been interested in attending.

It is in your capacity as a clergyman that I address you today. My father informs me that the Kellynch living has had no incumbent these seven years, the late baronet not being a man of churchgoing habits. My father suggested rather strongly that I rectify the situation, and I can think of no one I would prefer to have the living than you, cousin. I know this shall present you with some difficulties; from what you have told me in the past, your bishop may have little patience with pluralism. But the churches being so close together, I have confidence that you shall be able to admirably discharge your duties to both parishes. My father stands ready to speak to the bishop on my behalf if necessary.

I shall not be returning to the parish myself for the time being. As you know, when I arrived here almost two years ago, I accepted the position of flag lieutenant to the Commander in Chief of the North American and West Indian Station, a position that I have found most rewarding. There is a possibility that I shall be promoted very soon and given a sloop of my own to command. Such advancement is not to be found in England at this time. The Admiralty keeps much too tight a rein on the officers within its immediate reach. Here, so far from England, an Admiral can promote deserving officers as he desires, and I would be foolish not to take advantage of the gains I have already earned here.

Kellynch Hall is to be let in my absence. My father shall act as my agent in this regard. However, he has other duties that weigh upon him, and I shall depend upon you to be my representative in your capacity as rector, if you decide to accept the living. I hope that you do, Walter. It will be helpful to my mother to see some tie of family retained at Kellynch.

I have written to Annie to explain my position but I do not think she will understand. I have tried to explain that I have good reasons to stay here, but I fear that she attributes my actions to other motives. Suffice to say that at this time, I feel that my best chance of happiness lay in the West Indies. I hope you can help Charles to convince Annie so. However, I have no fear for my sister with two such men as you and Charles to look after her.

I hope that you accept the living in the spirit of family affection in which it is offered. When you have reached your decision, my father shall act in my behalf in all particulars. I remain

yours &c.,

Lt. Edward Wentworth, RN

As Walter finished reading the letter, Mrs. Brumby brought in the tea. The pause to pour and arrange was welcome as Walter fought to control his whirling thoughts. Anne was right, he thought ruefully. Edward's protests have the ring of bitterness. What happened between him and Catherine Leigh?

When the housekeeper had again departed, Walter sipped his tea and regarded his uncle thoughtfully. "Was it your suggestion that Edward offer me the living, sir?" he asked.

Sir Frederick stared at him in astonishment, then laughed. "Yes, it was. Or more properly, it was my wife's suggestion, although I passed it on to Edward with the letters from the solicitors. Your aunt has very strong family feelings, you know, and it has pained her that the Kellynch church has stood empty these seven years. You may be interested to know that she made a similar request of Sir William, but he chose not to honour it."

"I am honoured by Edward's offer, but I do not think that Bishop Prescott will be of a mind to agree to it."

"I shall take care of the bishop," sais Sir Frederick with great deliberation. "Have no fear on that account. If a man cannot use his title and position to help his family, then what good is it? And it is an excellent living, Walter, a clear five hundred pounds a year plus glebe land. You have a curate already, and you can let the Kellynch parsonage, if you like; it will be a fine addition to your income." The older man smiled at him and added teasingly, "Perhaps you may feel now that you can marry!"

Walter laughed. "Have you a particular young lady in mind for me, Uncle?"

"No, although I would be in your debt if you took Sophie off my hands!" The two men laughed together, Walter a bit uncomfortably, wondering if there was perhaps a grain of truth in his uncle's last statement.

"Well, what do you say, son?" Sir Frederick asked him kindly. "Will you accept?"

"Yes," said Walter decisively. "I will. I thank you, sir. I shall write to Edward directly."

"Very good," said Sir Frederick, placing his empty cup on the tray. "I shall have the necessary papers drawn up and bring them to you when they are ready." Walter rose to see him out, but his uncle waved him back to the chair. "I can find the door very well myself." He smiled fondly and added, "You are making your aunt very happy."

"My mother shall be delighted as well, you know. And after all, there is nothing like the domestic felicity of women to ease a man's life."

The admiral laughed heartily. "You have wisdom beyond your years, Walter! You are indeed ready to marry!" He went off down the passage, chuckling.

Walter returned to copying out his sermon, then wrote a letter to Edward, and it was not until several hours later that he realized that he had agreed to be the rector of the parish in which Gwendolyn Clay might very soon be living.

Walter embarked on his new position as rector of Kellynch with great dispatch. He found that the church had been sadly neglected over the past seven years, with a series of visiting priests as its only guardians, and he set Delbert Stock to righting it. The curate, though he held a degree from one of the universities, was no philosopher; he was happiest when he had a set task and preferred to work with his hands, taking pride in keeping the two churches clean and in good repair. As payment for his increased duties, Walter gave Mr. Stock the rambling Kellynch parsonage-house to live in rent-free, no small consideration for a man with a wife and seven children. The grateful curate threw himself into his duties, and between them they were able to minister to the souls of two parishes with less difficulty than one might expect.

Word soon came that a tenant had been found for Kellynch Hall. Sir Frederick, attending a reception at the Court of St. James (grudgingly and only at the express command of the Lords of the Admiralty), had encountered a gentleman who had been made a Knight of the Bath that very day. He was an Irish merchant who had rendered a mysterious yet valuable service to the queen, and as the Crown's relations with Erin remained tenuous at best, it was thought that honouring one of her sons might buy Her Majesty some goodwill for relatively little cost. Unfortunately Sir Bernard Gilbride saw his new position as an excellent excuse to leave the country of his birth and the business that had brought him his fortune and establish himself as a real English country gentleman, thus neatly circumventing the Crown's purposes while satisfying his own. Having a superstitious bent, Sir Bernard saw his meeting with the dignified Sir Frederick Wentworth of the Royal Navy on the day of his own elevation as fortuitous, and agreed to lease Kellynch Hall sight unseen. He would take possession within the month, along with his two children.

The Gilbrides were not the only new faces in the neighbourhood. Walter was walking back from the post office one cold, sunny March day when an elegant cabriolet, attended by a driver and footman in spotless livery, pulled into the sweep in front of the parsonage. He continued up the walk curiously, not recognizing the equipage, and was startled to see the footman hand out Gwendolyn Clay. She glanced up at the parsonage with a smile as her maid, Jeanne, clambered inelegantly from the carriage.

"Good morning, Miss Clay," said Walter, walking up to the door. He made no move to invite her into the house.

"Mr. Musgrove," said Gwendolyn warmly, walking up to him with her hand extended. "It is so very good to see you, sir! It has been much too long." Walter took her hand and bowed over it, wondering if she expected him to kiss it; if she did she gave no indication. "So this is your house! It appears very neat and cozy."

"It serves me."

There was a silence, then Gwendolyn said brightly, "Your manners are abominable, sir. Do you often leave ladies standing in the public roadway?"

Walter refrained from pointing out that the sweep was located well off the roadway, saying only, "I am not in the habit of receiving unmarried, unattended ladies."

"Unattended?" Gwendolyn looked at him in mock surprise. "But here is Jeanne! She is small but I assure you she would not countenance any man taking liberties with her mistress." Jeanne nodded and gave him a gap-toothed grin. Walter nearly laughed aloud, remembering the nights that the little maid had led him to Gwendolyn's bed-chamber for that very purpose.

Just then the door opened and Mrs. Brumby came out. She looked Gwendolyn's fashionably-clad form down, then up, with eyebrow raised. She muttered a "humph" and looked pointedly at the rector. Walter knew that if he turned Gwendolyn away, the servants would spread the news across the countryside. He suddenly felt that he could not allow her to be embarrassed in such a way; he told himself that he owed that service to Miss Clay as one of his parishioners, not wishing to examine his real motives too closely.

"Mrs. Brumby, will you see the ladies into the drawing-room, please? Miss Clay and Miss...Jeanne" --suddenly realizing that he did not know the maid's surname-- "have come to call. Your timing is excellent, ladies," he added, moving to hold the door for them. "I was just returning with the mail. I shall take it into my library and be at your service directly."

He dropped the mail on the desk and went down the passage hastily to the drawing-room. As he approached the door, Mrs. Brumby came out and looked at him sharply. "You'll want tea, sir?" she said, disapproval evident in each word.

"Yes, thank you," he said in some embarrassment as the housekeeper walked down the passage toward the kitchen, shaking her head. He took a deep breath and entered the drawing-room.

Gwendolyn was perched demurely on the edge of the sofa by the window. She had placed herself with her usual care; the curtains were opened, the sunlight streamed in and lit the golden curls that had escaped from the sides of her elegant hat, and she positively glowed. Jeanne had wandered over to the watercolours hanging on the wall at the far side of the room and was looking at them with some interest. Walter knew that she understood little English and would be only a nominal chaperone in any case, but had the feeling that she had removed herself from their company at the command of her mistress.

Walter seated himself on the other sofa, across from Gwendolyn and with the tea-table between them, and said, "How may I be of service to you, Miss Clay?"

"Service?" she said in some amusement. "Can a lady not pay a call on her clergyman without requiring a service?"

"It is not a common practice for an unmarried woman."

"I see." She regarded him with thoughtfully. "Perhaps I require spiritual guidance."

This time he allowed himself to laugh, long and heartily. Gwendolyn smiled back at him, not at all offended.

The door opened and Mrs. Brumby brought in the tea, casting another disapproving look at the rector, who tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin. "I will pour," Gwendolyn told the housekeeper, dismissing her firmly yet politely, and she withdrew, shaking her head.

"She is very protective," said Gwendolyn, passing him a cup. "I am glad you have someone to look after you."

There was a small silence, and to fill it Walter said, "My condolences on your loss."

"My loss? Oh, you mean my mother. We meant little to one another in life, and she is not much missed. There, you have my confession. I have broken a Commandment by failing to honour my mother. That makes this visit official, does it not?"

Walter did not know what to say to that; he loved his mother, despite her many faults, and could not imagine sharing such enmity with her. He soldiered on gamely. "Is your brother in good health?"

"I believe so. Henry is not the best correspondent, although his wife writes to me occasionally. He is married now, you know." She sipped her tea and giggled. "He has young squire Musgrove to thank for that."

"Charles?" asked Walter in astonishment.

"Aye. My brother now bears a very ugly scar right here," brushing her fingers along her cheekbone. "I understand that it was inflicted by your brother with the business end of a horsewhip. He deserved it, of course; I told him he was foolish to meddle with Sophie Wentworth, but he would not listen to me. Pretty young ladies care not for his altered countenance, which as you might imagine put a crimp in his romantic conquests, so he managed to get himself leg-shackled to a cross-eyed consumptive shopkeeper's daughter with six thousand pounds."

The fell into an uncomfortable silence. Walter finally set the cup on the table and said bluntly, "Why are you here, Gwen?"

She raised an eyebrow. "So much for the social niceties."

"We know each other too well for those."

"I suppose we do." She set down her own cup. "I simply wished to call and tell you that I have returned to the neighbourhood."

"You are enjoying Sir William's legacy, then."

Gwendolyn blinked at the mention of the late baronet's name. Her smile disappeared and she said, "Yes, my stepfather was kind to me at the last. Ten thousand pounds and a life interest in Kellynch Lodge; think you that a fair price for my virtue, Walter?"

He was struck dumb by the bitterness in her eyes. He remembered the indifferent way she had referred to her affair with Sir William, remembered how she had insisted that she was not a victim, but he read a very different message in her expression. Then the mask went back in place and she said with a brightness that rang false, "Well, that is all in the past. Do you like my cabriolet?"

He smiled and said, "It suits you."

"I thought so." She sipped her tea and smiled.

Walter considered his words carefully, then said, "Gwen, if you have an idea that I wish to return to our former association, I assure you that I do not. I am not the same man that you knew before. I have worked hard these two years to build something for myself here, something of real value, and I will not endanger it for--physical gratification. Forgive me for speaking plainly."

"Then I shall speak plainly as well. I have not come here seeking to lure you to my bed." She gazed at him intently; he had forgotten how green her eyes were. "I am an independent woman now. I no longer conduct my life or claim a home by any man's pleasure, and I plan to take full advantage of my new position. You have indeed changed these two years, Walter; I saw it immediately. You are content, and you wear your contentment well. Is it too much to believe that I wish to change as well, to achieve such contentment for myself? You must believe that I never wanted the life I had before. These past two months--I cannot tell you how delicious my freedom is. And I have determined that there is no reason that I should not be respectable as well as independent. I mean to enter the life of this neighbourhood and be a real part of it. I have the fortune, and the connections. In six months I will be able to call on you and your housekeeper will not treat me disrespectfully and shake her head at me. Depend upon it, Walter, for I am determined, and when I am determined on something, more often than not I achieve it." She set down her cup and rose. "Come along, Jeanne," she called the maid, who trotted over obediently.

Walter rose to see her out, still reeling a little from Gwendolyn's impassioned speech. "Will I see you at services on Sunday?" he could not resist asking.

Gwendolyn turned back at the door and smiled at him. "Of course. All the respectable women in the parish will be there, will they not? Good morning, Mr. Musgrove." She swept out, trailed by the faithful Jeanne.

Walter stood by the door for a moment, then turned abruptly and went into the library. He closed the door and leaned against it for a moment with his eyes closed, trying to forget that he had spent most of Gwendolyn's visit wondering how his hands would feel tucked into the curve of her tightly-corseted waist.

Naturally, Mrs. Musgrove was one of the first to call on the Gilbrides, and reported back to her husband and younger son as they dined that evening at the Great House.

"Sir Bernard is not very genteel," she complained as she sipped a spoonful of soup. "Oh, he is agreeable enough, I suppose, but quite unrefined."

"What of the children?" asked her husband.

"The daughter keeps house for Sir Bernard. She appeared about five-and-twenty. Red hair, sallow skin, not a handsome young lady at all. Indeed, she is rather plain. On the shelf, you know. I did not see the son. He is of a sickly constitution, and Sir Bernard moved into the country mostly for his benefit."

"How old is he?"

"He is fifteen, Miss Gilbride said."

"A difficult age for a boy to be much abed," Walter observed. "Especially with spring approaching. One hopes the country air will benefit him sufficiently to allow him to enjoy the warm days."

"Yes, well," said his mother dismissively. "I am going to invite them to dine with us next week. In our position, we must be among the first to invite them, you know, or people will talk."

Mr. Musgrove laughed. "Who will talk, Mary?" he asked his wife with a grin. "Frederick and Anne would not, nor would Charles and Henrietta, nor anyone else in the neighbourhood. But if you wish to have a dinner party, by all means do so. A little company in the evening is always pleasant. I shall call on Sir Bernard tomorrow, and will take him a note if you like."

"I do not wish to have a dinner party, Charles," she snapped. "I am doing so because I must, as the wife of the squire and as the daughter of Sir Walter Elliot. As ill as I have been this week, such an event will completely drain me. I do wish you would learn to appreciate the sacrifices I make for your good name!"

Walter and his father exchanged furtive grins, both knowing that Mrs. Musgrove loved company and adored to give dinner parties. Insensible of the impertinence conducted under her very nose, she drowned her sorrows in some plum pudding, which fortunately was of a special recipe that never added to her indispositions.

As the evening of the dinner party approached, Walter found himself growing more curious about the new family living at Kellynch Hall. He had made a point of taking the Sunday service at Kellynch church, a function that he usually left for Mr. Stock, but the only Gilbride there was Sir Bernard, who explained that his son had been indisposed that morning and that his daughter had stayed behind to nurse him. Despite his mother's disparaging description, Walter found his new parishioner to be a pleasant enough man, not handsome, but extremely good-natured and unaffected by his new title. However, it was rare for new people to come into their small society, and such arrivals must always be interesting. Thus the rector walked into the drawing-room of the Great House on the appointed evening with a heightened sense of anticipation that was only slightly tempered by the fact that Charles and Anne were the only other guests yet arrived.

He kissed Anne, who smiled up at him. Charles had reported that the lowness and fatigue she had previously suffered had mostly passed, and she was glowing and lovely, her voluminous skirts no longer able to conceal her expanding waistline. "How are you feeling, love?" he asked her softly.

"Very well, I thank you," she said. "Perhaps a little off-balance at times." She lowered her voice and added, "I cannot help feeling that I should not have declined your mother's kind invitation."

"Why?"

She gestured toward her lap in embarrassment. "It cannot be entirely proper to appear in company in such a state!"

Walter laughed. "I suppose my mother would not be put off."

"No. She said that I was being missish and insisted that Charles and I attend. I hope the Gilbrides are not offended."

Having met the good-natured Sir Bernard, Walter felt comfortable in assuring her that they would not be affronted. "I hope my nephew is behaving himself tonight?"

"He or she is resting quietly at the moment," she said with a grin.

"I am glad that he has learned to act properly amongst company." Walter continually teased his sister about the sex of her child; he truthfully had no preference, only hoping for a healthy child and an easy birth for Anne.

"I do not really expect that happy circumstance to last the entire evening," she replied, and then her eyes widened in surprise at something behind him. He turned and saw that Gwendolyn Clay had entered the room, accompanied by Mrs. Fletcher, an eminently respectable middle-aged widow whom Miss Clay had recently engaged to live with her at Kellynch Lodge.

Mrs. Musgrove moved forward to greet the newcomers, and Walter found Charles at his side, gazing up at him with concern. "Walter, if I had known, I would have told you--I did not know that Mother intended to invite her."

Walter gave his brother a wan smile. "Miss Clay lives in one of my parishes, after all. I cannot avoid her forever."

"No, I suppose not," Charles agreed, but he did not look any more comfortable with the present circumstance. He exchanged a troubled look with his wife, who reached for her brother's hand and squeezed it comfortingly.

Walter smiled down at her. "Thank you, love," he said softly. "Thank you both for your concern, but I assure you that it is not at all necessary."

"Well, Anne cannot rise from her chair without assistance, so you have my leave to monopolize her all night," declared Charles, making both Anne and Walter laugh.

Mrs. Musgrove bore down upon them. "What is so amusing, Charles? Come, you must share the joke with all of us."

Charles stopped laughing, glanced toward Miss Clay, and said only, "I have forgotten." He went to join his father.

Mrs. Musgrove drew Walter aside. "Walter, you know your brother is hopeless as a host, so I depend upon you to help me entertain the ladies here tonight. I know when you see Miss Gilbride, you may feel it a hard charge, but a pretty young lady like Miss Clay will be easy to talk to, I am sure. You have been friendly with her in the past, have you not?"

His mother's innocent question gave Walter a moment's pause, but he managed to ask her why she had invited Miss Clay and her companion.

"Well, Miss Clay is Sir William's stepdaughter, and he saw fit to give her a legacy. I feel obliged to maintain the connection; my dear father would have wanted it, I am sure. And they are very close neighbours to the Gilbrides, after all. I am very glad to be able to introduce them."

At that moment the Gilbrides were announced, and Walter turned to the door with real interest. Sir Bernard came in, all red face and good nature, followed by his children. Miss Gilbride proved to be very much as Mrs. Musgrove had described, although a more discerning observer would have noticed that her hair was less red than it was warm, burnished copper, and her skin less sallow than translucently pale. No one would ever describe her as pretty, but she was certainly handsome, with an intelligence in her azure-blue eyes that must draw one's interest.

Master Michael Gilbride was tall and gangly, with his sister's coppery hair and blue eyes in an thin, eager face that looked around him with his father's good-natured, open friendliness.

Mrs. Musgrove was saying, "I am so glad that young Mr. Gilbride is able to join us. I know how vexing it is to be obliged to go into company when one is indisposed. I hope you did not exert yourself overmuch."

"I thank you, ma'am. I detest having to stay abed when there is a party, and I told Eileen that I would on no account miss it, and she agreed that I was well enough to come. I hardly coughed all day." Mrs. Musgrove, accustomed to her own invalidish protests, blinked at the boy in surprise; Walter smiled at his frankness, and at the affectionate expressions on the faces of Miss Gilbride and Sir Bernard. Michael caught his eye and grinned in a very friendly manner.

"Come, boy, you'll have these good people thinking you a gudgeon," Sir Bernard declared, moving forward to shake Mr. Musgrove's hand. "How do ye do, sir, how do ye do? I have had the pleasure of meeting the rector last Sunday at Mass." Mr. Musgrove performed the necessary introductions, and soon the call came for dinner.

"Walter, take in Miss Clay," whispered his mother as she took Sir Bernard's arm. Walter looked around; his father was taking in Miss Gilbride, and Charles was assisting Anne from her chair; he finally approached Gwendolyn and held out his hand silently. She smiled and rose, allowing him to tuck her gloved hand into his arm, and they walked into the dining-room closely followed by Michael Gilbride and Mrs. Fletcher.

The seating arrangements were no easier on his peace; he found himself between Gwendolyn and her companion. At first, Gwendolyn confined her attention to Sir Bernard on her other hand, and Walter tried to make conversation with Mrs. Fletcher; she proved to be pleasant but rather stupid, and he soon gave up the attempt. When Gwendolyn finally turned to him, her conversation was innocuous, mostly polite questions about the church and the parish. Walter found himself gazing at his father and brother, smiling and laughing at the conversation of Miss Gilbride, who was seated between them, her blue eyes sparkling.

When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Walter was careful to take a seat at the opposite end of the room from Gwendolyn, despite his mother's nods and winks, finding himself next to Michael Gilbride and his sister. After the tea and coffee were dispensed, Mrs. Musgrove said brightly, "How shall we entertain you, gentlemen? I would ask Anne to play, but she can no longer reach the keys!"

Anne turned bright red at her mother-in-law's reference to her condition in front of those outside the family circle. Charles rose gallantly to the occasion, saying, "Perhaps one of the other ladies will oblige us. Miss Gilbride, do you play the pianoforte?"

"Unfortunately, I do not," she said. "But perhaps I can entertain the company in another way."

Mrs. Musgrove looked confused. "Do you play the harp, Miss Gilbride? I am afraid we have none at Uppercross. My sister-in-law Mrs. Hayter has one, and had I known--"

"Oh, no, ma'am, I am not at all musical. But in Kerry I am well-known for my skill in storytelling."

Michael clapped. "Ah, we are in for a treat! Tell 'em the one about Pat Diver, Eileen."

She smiled at her brother and brushed an errant lock of hair from his eyes. "Very well, this is the story of Pat Diver the tinker, who had no story of his own to tell. I first heard this from a gentleman of Donegal who was one of my father's customers." She rose and stood in front of the fire; as she told the story, her movements punctuated her words, wrapping the listeners in a cocoon of imagination and carrying them off to the mists and green fields of Ireland.

"Pat Diver, the tinker, was a man well-accustomed to a wandering life, and to strange shelters; he had shared the beggar's blanket in smoky cabins; he had crouched beside the still in many a nook and corner where poteen was made on the wild Innishowen mountains; he had even slept on the bare heather, or on the ditch, with no roof over him but the vault of heaven; yet were all his nights of adventure tame and commonplace when compared with one especial night.

During the day preceding that night, he had mended all the kettles and saucepans in Moville and Greencastle, and was on his way to Culdaff, when night overtook him on a lonely mountain road. He knocked at one door after another asking for a night's lodgings, while he jingled the halfpence in his pocket, but was everywhere refused. Where was the boasted hospitality of Innishowen, which he had never before known to fail? It was of no use to be able to pay when the people seemed so churlish. Thus thinking, he made his way towards a light a little further on, and knocked at another cabin door. An old man and woman were seated one at each side of the fire.

'Will you be pleased to give me a night's lodging, sir?' asked Pat respectfully.

'Can you tell a story?' returned the old man.

'No, then, sir, I canna say I'm good at storytelling,' replied the puzzled tinker.

'Then you maun just gang further, for none but them that can tell a story will get in here.'

This reply was made in so decided a tone that Pat did not attempt to repeat his appeal, but turned away reluctantly to resume his weary journey. 'A story, indeed,' muttered he. 'Auld wives' fables to please the weans!'

As he took up his bundle of tinkering implements, he observed a barn standing rather behind the dwelling-house, and, aided by the rising moon, he made his way towards it. It was a clean, roomy barn, with a piled-up heap of straw in one corner. Here was a shelter not to be despised; so Pat crept under the straw, and was soon asleep.

He could not have slept very long when he was awakened by the tramp of feet, and, peeping cautiously through a crevice in his straw covering, he saw four immensely tall men enter the barn, dragging a body, which they threw roughly upon the floor.

They next lighted a fire in the middle of the barn, and fastened the corpse by the feet with a great rope to a beam in the roof. One of them began to turn it slowly before the fire. 'Come on,' said he, addressing a gigantic fellow, the tallest of the four--'I'm tired; you be to tak' your turn.'

'Faix an' troth, I'll no turn him,' replied the big man. 'There's Pat Diver in under the straw, why wouldn't he tak' his turn?'

With hideous clamour the four men called the wretched Pat, who seeing there was no escape, thought it was his wisest plan to come forth as he was bidden.

'Now, Pat,' said they, 'you'll turn the corpse, but if you let him burn you'll be tied up there and roasted in his place.'

Pat's hair stood on end, and the cold perspiration poured from his forehead, but there was nothing for it but to perform his dreadful task. Seeing him fairly embarked in it, the tall men went away.

Soon, however, the flames rose so high as to singe the rope, and the corpse fell with a great thud upon the fire, scattering the ashes and embers, and extracting a howl of anguish from the miserable cook, who rushed to the door and ran for his life.

He ran on until he was ready to drop with fatigue, when, seeing a drain overgrown with tall, rank grass, he thought he would creep in there and lie hidden till morning. But he was not many minutes in the drain before he heard the heavy tramping again, and the four men came up with their burthen, which they laid down on the edge of the drain.

'I'm tired,' said one, to the giant; it's your turn to carry him a piece now.'

'Faix and troth, I'll no carry him,' replied he, 'but there's Pat Diver in the drain, why wouldn't he come out and tak' his turn?'

'Come out, Pat, come out,' roared all the men, and Pat, almost dead with fright, crept out.

He staggered on under the weight of the corpse until he reached Kiltown Abbey, a ruin festooned with ivy, where the brown owl hooted all night long, and the forgotten dead slept around the walls under dense, matted tangles of brambles and ben-weed. No one ever buried there now, but Pat's tall companions turned into the wild graveyard and began digging a grave. Pat, seeing them thus engaged, thought he might once more try to escape, and climbed up into a hawthorn tree in the fence, hoping to be hidden in the boughs.

'I'm tired,' said the man who was digging the grave; 'here, take the spade,' addressing the big man, 'it's your turn.'

'Faix an' troth, it's no my turn,' replied he, as before. 'There's Pat Diver in the tree, why wouldn't he come down and tak' his turn?'

Pat came down to take the spade, but just then the cocks in the little farmyards and cabins round the abbey began to crow, and the men looked at one another.

'We must go,' said they, 'and well it is for you, Pat Diver, that the cocks crowed, for if they had not, you'd just ha' been bundled into that grave with the corpse.'

Two months passed, and Pat had wandered far and wide over the county Donegal, when he chanced to arrive at Raphoe during a fair. Among the crowd that filled the Diamond he came suddenly on the big man.

'How are you, Pat Diver?' said he, bending down to look into the tinker's face.

'You've the advantage of me, sir, for I havna' the pleasure of knowing you,' faltered Pat.

'Do you not know me, Pat?' And then he whispered, 'When you go back to Innishowen, this time you'll have a story to tell!'"*

When she stopped speaking, there was complete silence for a long moment; then the company burst into applause. Charles, who loved a good story, was the most enthusiastic, clapping heartily and grinning from ear to ear, but his brother was not far behind. Anne, who had clutched her husband's hand throughout the story, smiled with delight, her large brown eyes shining. Michael leaned over to Walter and confided, "She knows hundreds and hundreds of stories like that, and better, sir! Don't you, Eileen?"

Miss Gilbride had come back to her seat, and Walter rose to greet her. "In that case, I hope that you will oblige us again in the future," he said with a smile.

"I should be very glad to do so, sir," she said, returning his smile, her blue eyes dancing with merriment. "But I am afraid that Mrs. Musgrove thinks my story vulgar."

Walter glanced at his mother, who was staring at Miss Gilbride with an odd expression. "I think she is simply surprised at such an accomplishment in a young lady. It is not a common thing amongst our acquaintance."

Mrs. Fletcher had taken a seat at the pianoforte and was playing a bright air of no consequence, just the thing to stimulate conversation amongst a crowd of strangers. Michael was summoned by Charles, who had promised him a game of chess during dinner.

Walter turned to Miss Gilbride and said, "I was surprised to see your father at Kellynch Church last Sunday."

She set her cup in the saucer and looked at him curiously. "Why would that surprise you, sir?"

"Most of the Irish are members of the Roman Church, are they not? Especially those who do not live in Ulster."

She nodded. "I see. You must also know that it was illegal to profess that religion in Ireland until only a few years ago."

"I also know that many of your countrymen continued to profess that religion despite the law."

"And you do not approve?"

"On the contrary, madam. Such faith can only be considered admirable."

She laughed. "It is indeed. And your initial surmise was correct, sir. My mother raised me as a Catholic, even when it was illegal. I received my first Holy Communion shortly after the Emancipation Act was passed in 1829. However, since my mother has passed on and we are living here now, my father thinks it best that we join the Church of England."

Her expression was noncommittal, but Walter had a sense that she did not agree with her father's decree. "And this is acceptable to you?"

Those remarkably blue eyes met his once again. "It is all the same God, is it not?"

Walter laughed. "My bishop would disagree with you, I am afraid."

Miss Gilbride smiled in response. "I suppose your bishop has not read 'Tract 90.'"

"He has indeed, madam, as have I." Walter was familiar with the work to which she referred, a tract by John Henry Newman, an Anglican priest. The tract argued that the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Anglican Church, which enumerated the ties between the Church of England and Her Majesty's government, were compatible with the doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church. Walter had heard Bishop Prescott refer to the Reverend Mr. Newman as a "popish apologist" who was secretly endeavouring to tempt good Church of England members into the ranks of Rome. "My bishop is an old-time Evangelical, a sympathizer of John Wesley, I am afraid. He does not embrace such radical ideas as those espoused by Mr. Newman."

"And you, Mr. Musgrove? Do you have sympathy for those ideas yourself?"

"Miss Gilbride, I leave such debates and high ideals to the bishops. My own observation is that the common Englishman, especially the working people who make up a large proportion of my parishes, are only seeking a quiet place to worship in peace and have little or no interest in doctrinal analysis."

She laughed aloud, and Walter smiled at her, and neither of them noticed Gwendolyn's glowing green eyes watching them over the top of her teacup.

At last Mrs. Fletcher finished playing, to a smattering of polite applause that made her blush profusely, and Mrs. Musgrove asked Gwendolyn to take her place. Gwendolyn sat at the instrument, rebuffed an offer from her companion to turn, and said, "I shall play from memory, Juliette dear, I thank you."

She glanced over at Walter, who was still speaking with Miss Gilbride, and began to play the "Moonlight" sonata, the piece she had played for him on their first night together. The haunting notes caught his attention and made him turn his head; he could not see her face, but he could see the tension in her arms and back as she played, bringing a passion and fire to the piece that he had never before heard. Memories crowded his head, and he knew that Gwendolyn intended that they should; she was making love to him with the music, and it was as if the two years and a half since their separation had never occurred. He watched her play, remembering. Miss Gilbride observed him carefully for a time, then rose and went to sit with Anne; Walter did not notice that she was gone.

Soon afterward young Michael began to yawn over the chessboard, and Sir Bernard called for his carriage. Walter bowed to Miss Gilbride and said, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, madam, and I thank you for the fine entertainment."

She smiled at him and held out her hand. "I look forward to more conversations with you, Mr. Musgrove. It is the rare man who treats me as a reading, thinking, rational creature, and I treasure such acquaintances." She shook his hand cordially and followed her father to the carriage after promising Anne that she would call at the Cottage in the morning.

As the carriage rumbled away, the cabriolet drew near, and Gwendolyn and Mrs. Fletcher took their leave. "Good evening, Mr. Musgrove," Gwendolyn said quietly. "It was very good to see you again."

"And you," Walter said softly, raising her hand to his lips. "Good night, Miss Clay."

When she was gone, Walter turned to see Charles gazing at him with a look of dismay. "Have a care, brother," he said quietly. "I would not have you misused by the likes of Gwendolyn Clay."

"She no longer has any power over me."

"I hope not," said Charles, smiling faintly. Walter smiled back at him and put his arm around his brother's shoulders as they went back into the house.

*The story of Pat Diver is taken from Irish Fairy and Folk Tales collected and edited by W.B. Yeats, first published in 1892.

A few days after the dinner at the Great House, Sir Bernard Gilbride called at the parsonage. A rather surprised Walter showed him into his library and asked how he might be of service.

"I have come to beg a favour," said the older man. "My son, Michael, is not a hearty boy, as I believe you know." Walter nodded cautiously. "He was perfectly healthy when we lived in Kerry, but when my wife passed some five years ago we moved to Dublin--my business was there, you know, and without their mother at hand--well, Michael's health went down sadly, sir."

"What is the nature of Mr. Gilbride's illness?"

"We don't rightly know." The older man scratched his head. "He would have these fits, these attacks, you see. He would cough violently for a time and have difficulty breathing, and be left weak and tired. We had doctors, specialists, to see him, of course. All of them said something different and none of them were helpful. Eileen noticed Michael was better if kept inside, so we kept him in as much as possible, though he is naturally an active boy and it is a difficult task." He leaned closer to Walter. "My wife--Michael's mother--died of a consumption, and I fear that he has inherited that tendency. He has grown alarmingly thin in the last year, although he has always been a good eater."

Walter smiled. "I would not trouble yourself about that, sir. I was tall and thin like Michael when I was fifteen, and I was perfectly healthy. And as for the other, I hope the country air will do him good."

"Aye. That is why I came here to Somerset, you know."

"We are delighted to have you in the neighborhood, sir, but may I be so bold as to ask why you did not return to Kerry?"

Sir Bernard shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Ireland is not the same as it was when I was a boy." He sighed. "I wish it was, sir, for my children's sake. It was not easy for me to leave. But the country is dying. Too many people and not enough food, crop failures, what we manage to grow sold out of the country--no, I see no future for us there. I want to give my boy more." He leaned over and fixed his shrewd gaze on Walter. "I want to send him to one of the universities. He will inherit a fine fortune, and I want him accepted as a gentleman, want him to make those contacts he will need in his future life."

"Are you seeking a recommendation of a school, sir?"

"Nay. Michael is not yet well enough to go to school with the other boys, all rough and tumble, you know." Walter smiled, remembering the "rough and tumble" aspects of his own schooling; the phrase was apt. Sir Bernard continued. "I would like you to tutor the boy. He has taken an uncommon shine to you and your brother."

Walter stared at the older man in some astonishment. He had never expected such a request; could not believe anyone could trust him with the education of a young boy. Sir Bernard misunderstood his silence, and hastened to add, "I'll compensate you, naturally. Make it well worth your while."

"No, no, it is not the money," cried Walter. "I confess I am taken aback."

"Indeed? I was given to understand that clergymen such as yourself often take boys to tutor until they are ready for university." He considered a moment. "Perhaps I should ask that curate of yours, Stock, is that his name? He has a large family, might be glad of the extra blunt."

Walter nearly laughed aloud at the thought of Delbert Stock tutoring anyone. He sometimes wondered how the curate had managed to get through Oxford, then remembered his own sometimes indifferent university education, in which most of his learning was obtained through his own exertions rather than that of his instructors. "Very well, sir, I shall tutor your son."

Sir Bernard was clearly much relieved. "Much obliged to you, rector, much obliged. You get him ready to go to one of the universities and I'll be in your debt."

The next day, Walter went to the Cottage to consult with Charles about a plan of study. Charles went to the sitting-room he used as a library, took a book down from the shelf, leafed through it, and presented the open volume to his brother. The page to which he pointed was Locke's essay, Thoughts On Education. "That one is for you," said Charles with a grin. "Now let us find some texts for young Michael."

With contributions from the libraries at the Cottage and the Great House along with his own, Walter was able to find sufficient books and determine what subjects young Mr. Gilbride would need to study for entrance into one of the universities. It was decided that three days a week would be sufficient time for the actual tutoring; Michael could spend other time studying on his own, and Walter could tend to his duties as rector. He set up a table and sturdy chairs in his library, which was to be the study area.

Michael Gilbride proved to be a joyful addition to the parsonage, his indefatigable good humour filling the house with light even on the bleakest winter days. Mrs. Brumby and Mrs. Wilson doted upon him, the former scolding the rector if she felt the boy was kept at his lessons for too long and the latter exerting herself to make delectable treats to tempt "Mr. Michael's" appetite. Walter observed that Michael's appetite, as healthy as that of any boy of fifteen, needed no such tempting, but he was as delighted with his pupil as his servants.

When the lessons began, Walter quickly determined that Michael could read very well, and from his own account did so voraciously; many times the tutor had to call Michael back to attention when his eyes wandered to the bookshelves, sometimes rising from his chair to inspect various titles. He knew Latin very well, some French, but no Greek, and his knowledge of science and mathematics were not as advanced as they should have been. Walter moved to correct his deficiencies, and was satisfied that the boy would be ready to go up to one of the universities within two years' time. Sir Bernard spoke wistfully of Oxford, but Michael declared he would go to Cambridge as Mr. Musgrove had. Walter found Michael's open hero-worship a little discomfiting, though flattering, and sometimes even amusing, as when he attempted to imitate the rector's style of dress or way of tying his neckcloth.

One morning a few weeks after the lessons had begun, Walter heard a carriage enter the sweep and went out to greet his pupil. He was surprised to see not the large, ponderous carriage decorated with Sir Bernard's crest on each door, but a gig driven by Miss Gilbride, with her brother seated beside her. He put out a hand to steady the boy as he scrambled eagerly out of the conveyance, then smiled up at the driver. "Good morning, Miss Gilbride," he said with a slight bow.

She smiled back at him. "Good morning, Mr. Musgrove! I have delivered your pupil. It was such a fine morning I thought it would be best for Michael to be in the fresh air for a bit before he has to be cooped up inside with his books."

"An excellent notion, madam." It was indeed a fine day for March, warm and bright. He turned to Michael, whose blue eyes were shining from the ride in the open carriage. "Are you ready to begin your day's studies, then, Mr. Gilbride?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Then let us go to it."

They bid Miss Gilbride good-bye, and she called to the horse and directed the gig down the sweep and out onto the road. Walter watched her for a moment admiringly; she was an excellent whip, driving efficiently yet elegantly. When she was out of sight they went into the library, where several texts were spread out on a table. They worked together for a few hours until Walter declared it time for a rest period.

Michael smiled at him, a lock of his coppery hair flopping into his eyes. "I would like to go outside for a bit, sir, if that is all right," he said hesitantly.

"It is quite all right. Are you hungry?" He was, and Walter sent him into the garden and went to the kitchen to arrange for a table, chairs, and milk and sandwiches to be brought outside. They ate their nuncheon among the wild, overgrown plantings; Mrs. Smythe's beloved rose-bushes, neglected since her death ten years previously, reached up and out with tangled, brown branches. They would flower in June, but not well; many of the blooms would be stunted, and others strangled in the untamed foliage. The flower beds would be a mass of weeds until one of the Uppercross gardeners came to dig them up sometime in June; then they would be nothing more than beds of dry, dead earth. Walter never came into the garden without determining once again to improve it, but this would be his third spring in the parsonage and he had yet to follow through.

When they were finished eating, Walter bid Michael to return to his books, but the protest in the boy's blue eyes prompted him to add, "You may bring them out here to study this afternoon, if you like. But I will hear you recite, and if you neglect your lessons, I will keep you inside all summer."

Michael grinned and ran inside for the books, and settled under a tree with the Greek text while Walter tended to his correspondence. After an hour, Walter tested him, and he knew the lesson perfectly. They were at the table labouring over a mathematics lesson when Michael looked up from his book and cried, "Eileen!"

Miss Gilbride had entered the garden and was walking toward them. Walter rose and waved his hand at his pupil to indicate that he should do so, as well.

Michael rose reluctantly to his feet. "She's only my sister!"

"Nonetheless, she is a lady, and a gentleman always rises to greet a lady."

Miss Gilbride overheard the conversation and called, "Mr. Musgrove, if you are trying to teach my brother manners, I assure you that many before you have tried and failed. I do not envy you your task." She approached the table and reached up to rumple her brother's head, a caress that could have been ridiculous considering that Michael was a head taller than his sister, but she made it seem perfectly right. "Open-air lessons! I am persuaded you would not get such at Rugby or Eton! What are you studying?" She glanced at his book. "Ah, Euclid. How do you get along?"

"Not at all, I am afraid," said Michael sorrowfully. "Mr. Musgrove says I must memorize the formulae but there are so many of them!"

Walter pointed out, "If you wish to attend Cambridge, you need a good background in mathematics and the sciences. I would not have the ghost of Sir Isaac Newton rising at midnight to confront you about your ignorance."

Michael laughed, but Eileen gazed up at him gravely. "If you want to learn this, you must apply yourself, and listen to your tutor."

"I shall."

"Good. Go inside and get your coat and things, it is time to go home."

When he was gone, she turned to Walter. "Mr. Musgrove, I thank you for bringing Michael out here for his lessons. The fresh air does him such good. You see how his colour has improved after just one day."

"I did notice, and will bring him out as much as possible when the weather is fine. However, I suspect we will have some more cold, rainy days before spring really arrives."

"Fear not, sir, spring is on the way. See how the bushes here are beginning to bud!" She walked over to one of the rose-bushes and pulled out a branch. She pointed to a tiny green bulge and said, "See?" Walter, who did not profess to be a botanist, nodded politely. Satisfied, Miss Gilbride dropped the branch and looked around her. "Do you have someone to tend this garden, sir? If so, you should turn him off directly, for he does not do his job."

"The disgraceful state of the garden is my fault, I am afraid," he confessed. "I have not devoted the time to it that it deserves, and it was neglected by my predecessor as well."

She turned her intense blue eyes to his. "Does your father not have gardeners that he could lend you?"

"Oh, yes, but I have not had the opportunity to direct them." Sensing that this lowered himself in her eyes, he added rather lamely, "I have many demands on my time."

"Of course." She walked around, reaching out occasionally to stroke a branch or run her gloved fingers through the dirt of a flower-bed. "If you will accept some advice from me, the first thing to do is prune these rose-bushes. They cannot bloom well as they are."

"They probably will not," he agreed. "They have not in the past two summers that I have lived here."

Miss Gilbride's eyes swept around the garden walls, considering. "This bed here, and this one here, should be planted with bulbs. That way you will not have to replant every year. And over here, a bench would be just the thing! Like the ones at the Cottage, the wrought-iron and painted wooden ones near the veranda." She laughed and turned to him, and then drew back, remembering herself. "Forgive me, Mr. Musgrove. It is certainly not my place to tell you anything about your household. In my defense I can only say that the gardens at Kellynch Hall are so well tended that there is nothing for me to do, and I miss working in the garden." She gazed about her wistfully. "Even in Dublin, we had a garden. But tell me," she added, turning back to him, "how would you like the garden to be?"

Walter was startled by the question. "I have not really given the matter any consideration." He looked around him, trying to see how he would like the garden to appear. "Nothing too manicured, I suppose. Natural, and perhaps somewhat unrestrained, but still proper and pleasing." He looked at her and added, "Can you understand what I am trying to convey?"

She smiled warmly. "I can indeed. I believe we have similar tastes in gardens, sir. I too prefer them proper, but not too much so."

Walter smiled back at her, and the fleeting thought occurred to him that his mother was not quite right when she said that Miss Gilbride was plain. It could be that Mrs. Musgrove had not seen the young lady in question in a particularly fetching blue hat and driving-habit that brought out the deep azure colour of her eyes. But while he ate his solitary dinner and afterward read a book upon which he found it difficult to concentrate, Walter found his thoughts returning time and time again to the sight of Eileen Gilbride in the slanting late-afternoon sunlight, her blue eyes sparkling with the thought of bringing his garden back to life.

One cloudy, chilly day in late March, Walter found himself obliged to go into Crewkerne on a commission from his mother and some business of his own. He rode his mare, Rebecca, which he had received as a gift from Charles upon his ordination. The creature was as strong and proud and spirited as her sire, Wilfred, and the sight of the handsome rector on the chestnut mare had excited many a flutter in the hearts of the young ladies of the neighbourhood.

It was market day, and the square in front of the old town hall was crowded with persons and animals and carts of all descriptions. Walter left Rebecca at a posting-inn in the care of a groom, then tended to his business at the bank; that completed, he made his way to Smedley's dry-goods store.

Mr. Smedley had opened his shop some twenty-five years previously and had been extremely successful in the endeavour. An ambitious man, he had purveyed his new-found fortune into social acceptance of a sort. He built a large, elegant house near Uppercross, and gained admission into the drawing-rooms of the neighbourhood by virtue of his wife, a woman of some education and gentility but little fortune. Mrs. Smedley had suppressed her own ambition, marrying a tradesman when faced with the alternative of being left on the shelf; however, she transferred that ambition to her daughters, particularly to Charlotte, the eldest. Miss Smedley was a blooming girl of nineteen who had determined to settle for nothing less than becoming Mrs. Walter Musgrove, and who just happened to be in the shop choosing a length of fabric for her spring ball-gown when Walter entered.

Walter went to the counter and opened his mouth to speak when he felt a hand on his arm and heard a voice that made him cringe internally. "Mr. Musgrove!" exclaimed a very happy Miss Smedley. "It is perfectly delightful to see you."

"Good day, madam," he said politely, trying to disengage his arm from hers. "I have come to match some ribbon." He handed a short length to the clerk behind the counter. "Three yards, please."

Miss Smedley waved the clerk away officiously. "La, matching ribbon is not a job for a man! Let me see it." She snatched the ribbon away from the clerk and went to a wall of bobbins, standing in front of them consideringly. The clerk, a Mr. Timothy Jones, stared after her disconsolately. Mr. Smedley, having no sons, had taken him as a partner shortly before. Mr. Jones had given his heart to Miss Smedley some time previously, but she would not consider his suit; not while the rector remained umarried. Walter gave him an embarrassed smile, but Mr. Jones refused to look at him.

"This is the very thing!" Miss Smedley brought a bobbin of ribbon back to the counter and handed it to Mr. Jones to measure it. She laughingly dangled the length that Walter had brought with him in front of his coat. "It will suit you admirably! It is just the colour of yellow to bring out your eyes." She smiled up at him through her eyelashes, apparently thinking that Walter would find such an affectation flirtatious.

"It is for my mother," said Walter, rather stiffly.

"For your mother? Not for your sweetheart?" she laughed up at him. "To tie around a bundle of wildflowers, perhaps?"

Before the somewhat revolted Walter could form an answer, Mr. Jones said haughtily, "It is not the time of year for wildflowers." He closed the scissors on the ribbon with a deliberate snap.

Miss Smedley ignored him. "Are you to go to the ball at the Tollers' Wednesday fortnight?"

"No, madam, I have not been invited." Thank heaven, he added mentally, imagining an evening of fending off her overwhelming attentions.

"No?" She frowned thoughtfully. "I must speak to Amanda. I am sure that I told her…" Her voice trailed off, and then suddenly she started, as if realizing for the first time that Walter was standing in front of her.

He took the opportunity presented by her confusion and said hastily, "It was very good to see you, Miss Smedley, but I am afraid that I must be on my way." He accepted the package of ribbon from Mr. Jones and turned to the door with relief that he hoped was not entirely visible.

"Wait!" she cried, following him with an eagerness that could hardly recommend herself to the rector. He halted and turned back to her, and she stood staring at him, wide-eyed. She had obviously spoken hastily, meaning only to stop him, without consideration for how she would keep him in the shop, and Walter felt his impatience rising to a dangerous level.

Just then the door to the shop opened, and Gwendolyn Clay walked in, accompanied by the ever-present Mrs. Fletcher. Gwendolyn took in the scene instantly, and though she did not smile, her eyes displayed her amusement at Walter's predicament. After savouring the absurdity for a moment, she said, "There you are, Mr. Musgrove! Have you finished your business? Are you ready to accompany me back to my carriage?"

Walter stared at her wildly, wondering what in the world she had in mind.

"So that I may give you that package," she prodded. "For your mother."

"Oh," he said, comprehending. "The package. For my mother. Yes, I am ready." He turned to Miss Smedley and said, "I thank you for your assistance, Miss Smedley, and you, Mr. Jones."

Charlotte was staring at Gwendolyn, her expression an odd mingling of resentment and admiration. Miss Smedley privately held the sophisticated and elegant Miss Clay as her sartorial ideal, but the evidence of a closer than usual acquaintance with the rector could not but be distressing. "Must you go now?" she said plaintively. "Do not you have business here, Miss Clay?"

"We shall come back tomorrow," she said sweetly. "Mr. Musgrove is a busy man. We should not keep him from his duties." She looked Miss Smedley down and up and added, "Charlotte, dear, that hat is just lovely! And that is a new dress, is not it? That colour is perfect for you. You should wear it more often."

Unable to help herself, Miss Smedley blushed and smiled at such attention from her idol, certainly more than she blushed over her shameless behaviour just now, thought Walter in some annoyance. "I must be on my way, Miss Clay," he said rather sharply. "If you have the package."

"Of course," she agreed, and took his arm as they passed out of the shop, trailed at a discreet distance by Mrs. Fletcher. "The carriage was unable to get close to the shop because of the market," Gwendolyn told Walter when they were outside. "The groom is walking the horses." They walked toward the road at the end of Market Square.

As they walked, Walter felt his pique dissolving. "You dealt with that situation quite admirably," he observed.

Gwendolyn smiled up at him. "Consider it my act of Christian charity for the day."

Walter laughed. "It was a truly Christian act, madam, and I thank you for it."

"It was my pleasure." She hesitated, then added cautiously, "You do not entertain Charlotte Smedley's attentions, then?"

"Good God, no," he said, again revolted. "And I suspect that she has no more real regard for me than I do for her. That mother of hers has filled her head with foolishness, depend upon it."

"'Twould not surprise me," Gwendolyn agreed. "Mrs. Smedley is quite ambitious."

"Charlotte should accept Jones and be done with it. He can make her happy as I could not."

"Here is the carriage." They had reached the road, and the groom alertly brought the carriage to the curb, then sprang to open the door. Gwendolyn indicated that Mrs. Fletcher should precede her into the conveyance, and Walter handed her in with a polite smile that caused her to giggle rather unattractively.

Walter then turned to Gwendolyn and took her hand to help her up the step. "Thank you, love," he said softly. "I'll not forget this favour."

She laughed. "I would not have let you forget it." She put her foot on the carriage step, then turned back to him and added in a low voice, "And never discount your ability to make a woman happy, Walter. It is prodigious indeed."

His heart too full for words, he raised her hand to his lips. As he did so, he heard his name being called out by a familiar voice and realized that it came from a gig just behind Gwendolyn's. He turned, Gwendolyn's hand still in his, and saw that the driver was Eileen Gilbride. She was smiling, but then caught sight of his companion, and the smile faltered. She bowed politely to Gwendolyn, who returned the salute, her green eyes once again full of amusement and, perhaps, a note of triumph.

"Good day, Miss Gilbride," she called with a sweet smile.

Miss Gilbride directed her gig smartly around Gwendolyn's stopped carriage. As she passed, her eyes caught Walter's, lingered for a moment, then resolutely fixed on the road in front of the gig.

Anne was no longer going out, and Walter tried to stop by the Cottage daily, if only for a few minutes. He rarely found her alone; Lady Wentworth was often with her, as was Sophie Wentworth, and sometimes Mrs. Musgrove would sit for fifteen minutes and offer child-rearing advice which Anne received with admirable composure. However, Anne's most faithful visitor by far was Eileen Gilbride. The ladies had become fast friends and Eileen was willing to keep Anne company for a few hours nearly every afternoon.

One bright day in late winter he found the two ladies companionably established with their respective needlework in the drawing-room of the Cottage. He dropped a kiss on Anne's cheek and admired her work, a tiny frock embellished with handmade lace and embroidery.

"The stitchery is beautiful, love," he observed. "You exert yourself more on these clothes than you ever have on your own."

Anne smiled at Eileen. "You may direct your admiration to Eileen. The embroidery is hers. My talents do not lie in that direction."

Walter directed a gallant bow at Miss Gilbride. "Please accept my congratulations and admiration on behalf of my family, madam," he said to her with a grin that belied his solemn words. "You have outdone yourself on my nephew's behalf."

"Or niece," said Anne serenely.

Miss Gilbride smiled up at Walter. "I thank you, Mr. Musgrove. May I add that Anne should not be so quick to denigrate her skill with the needle. I observe that landscape done in silks that hangs above the sofa bears her initials."

"Oh, heavens," said Anne, embarrassed. "I did that old thing years ago at school."

"And I dare say you can still embroider beautifully." Eileen took the gown from Anne and held it up. "It is a pretty thing, though, is not it?" she asked wistfully.

Walter regarded the gown with mingled appreciation and amusement. He had baptized enough babies to form a strong opinion on how long the exquisite little garment would retain its pristine condition once placed on an actual infant, but judged that at the present moment it might be better to keep his opinion to himself, so he simply asked after his brother.

"Charles is at the stables with Michael," said Anne. It had recently come to Charles' attention that young Mr. Gilbride had never learned to ride a horse, and had convinced Sir Bernard that the activity could have only salutary effects on the boy's health, with the happy result that Michael presented himself to Charles for riding lessons on the days that he did not meet with his tutor.

"I had a letter from Eliza today," Anne told Walter.

He pretended to be offended. "She does not write to me."

"Probably because she knows that her brothers are miserable correspondents."

"Probably," he agreed cheerfully. "Does she send any news of my nephews?"

"Of course! She says that little Jemmy never stops talking. His favourite word, unfortunately, is no."

"He takes after his uncles," said Walter comfortably. "My mother says that Charles and I were tyrannical little beasts at that age. I do not envy Eliza, especially when George starts walking. She shall be run off her feet."

"I cannot believe that you and your brother were disobedient little boys," observed Miss Gilbride as she snipped a piece of thread.

"I can," said Anne tartly. "And not just when they were infants. I recall our rector, who sits there looking so very virtuous, pushing Eliza and me into a large puddle when we were very little girls and he was a much bigger boy."

Walter's laughter mingled with that of the ladies. "And Charles fished you out," he reminded Anne.

"Yes, he did," she said, gazing down at her sewing dreamily.

"Charles has always been the best of us," said Walter without rancour.

"You are catching up," replied Anne with a warm smile.

Walter smiled back at her, quietly accepting the compliment. "Did Eliza say if she and James are going to town?"

"Not until next month, I think. The Leighs went down a week ago, but James and Eliza want to stay with the boys as long as possible. Will you be going to town at all?"

"I? No, no." Thoughts rose, unbidden and unwelcome, of his last season in London, and of Gwendolyn Clay. Walter looked away from his sister-in-law, flushing slightly. Since their encounter in Crewkerne, thoughts of Gwendolyn had often intruded on Walter's consciousness. He had to admit to himself that he was as attracted to her as he had been when they had first met, and the memories of their nights together would not be banished no matter how he tried.

Anne watched him, frowning slightly, and finally turned to Miss Gilbride. "Is your family going to London for any part of the season, Eileen?"

"No, my father thinks that Michael is getting on so well in the country that it might not be beneficial to expose him to city air quite so soon."

"Capital!" exclaimed Walter. "Michael will be here for the match! I shall have to take him out, see if he is fit for the team."

"Oh, no!" cried Anne, while Eileen chimed in curiously with, "The match?"

"A football match," explained Walter. "Every year around May Day, the Uppercross men play a match against a group from Lower Barstow."

"They call it a football match," said Anne darkly. "It seems to me to be nothing more than an excuse for grown men to wallow in dirt. Last year Charles came home covered from head to toe and a great deal more pleased about it than he had any right to be. He had mud caked in his hair. We had to draw two baths to get it all out. His clothes had to be thrown away; there was no help for them. Thomas should have just taken him down to the stables and dumped buckets of water over him. It would have been less work for everyone."

"My dear sister neglects to add," said Walter to Miss Gilbride, "that she stood on the sidelines jumping up and down and shouting her approval in an entirely unladylike manner when Charles scored a goal and everyone piled on top of him." Anne laughed good-naturedly at his teasing, but Eileen looked grave. Walter read her thoughts and added in a low voice, "You need not worry, Miss Gilbride. If Michael is not fit, I shall not let him play."

She smiled at him, her dark blue eyes warmer than the midday sunlight streaming into the drawing-room. "I thank you, sir. I appreciate your concern, and know I may trust my brother to your care."

"I am at your service," Walter said softly, and then added, almost as an afterthought, "and your family's."

Eileen's smile widened, and neither of them noticed Anne look up from her work and watch them with barely-concealed amusement.

"You must give us men our diversions, after all," Walter said after a moment. "And I submit that football is a very innocent diversion indeed."

"I have long thought that football is a fine substitute for warfare for idle gentlemen," replied Eileen archly. "Striving to dominate a disputed piece of land, trying to gain the enemy's defended territory-it is really quite warlike, do not you agree? In olden times, if the men of Uppercross had a dispute with the men of Lower Barstow, they would have ridden there with swords and pikes and either laid waste to the village or demanded ransom to go away."

"We live in civilized times now," Walter reminded her with a grin. "The business in jousting tournaments seems to have fallen off, and it would be a trifle rude to lay waste to a village for no good reason, so we must make do with what is at hand."

"Indeed," cried Miss Gilbride. "Now you simply kick a leather-covered pig's bladder at one another, but still may come home covered in mud, blood, and glory to fall into the devoted arms of your women."

"'Devoted arms of their women' my foot," complained Anne. "The only place my husband shall fall is the bath until the mud, blood and anything else is washed away."

"You know perfectly well that I am speaking in metaphors, dearest Anne," laughed Eileen. "I hope that Mr. Musgrove knows it, as well."

"Mr. Musgrove is enjoying himself thoroughly," Anne said with a smile. "He likes nothing better than a battle of wits, and you, my dear, provide a formidable opponent."

Eileen lifted her eyes from her needlework to glance at Walter. "Is that true, sir?"

"Anne knows me too well for me to deny it," he said quietly.

Before she could reply, the door opened and Charles and Michael entered the drawing-room in a burst of cold air and high spirits. "Here's company!" cried Charles. "Is that tea hot, love? Are there more of those biscuits? You have two hungry horsemen here."

Anne started to rise to ring for more refreshments, but Charles stopped her and gently propelled her back into her chair. "Forgive me, Anne, I do not mean to impose. I am perfectly capable of ringing the bell." He brought forth a small bench and placed it in front of her. "Are your ankles swollen? Here, put your feet up."

"Charles," said Anne in a sharper tone than normal. Her husband looked down at her, perplexed. "Just ring the bell, please," she said finally.

Charles hesitated for a moment and then grinned at Anne sheepishly. "I am hovering, am not I?"

"You are," she replied rather severely. Anne sometimes found her husband's anxious solicitude over her impending confinement a trifle wearying.

Charles took her hand and kissed it, still grinning, and Anne's annoyance melted visibly. "Ring the bell," she reminded him, smiling, and sat back with her needlework.

Mrs. Rudd soon brought in tea and biscuits, and knowing both the master's appetite and young Mr. Gilbride's, she set out cake and a plate of sandwiches as well. Miss Gilbride silently waved Anne back to her seat and poured out the tea while Michael and Charles fell on the food ravenously. Once their immediate hunger was assuaged, they went to the chessboard and continued their seemingly never-ending game.

Walter accepted a slice of cake and a cup of tea and stretched his feet lazily toward the fire. He had only intended to stay for fifteen minutes, but he had been at the Cottage for nearly an hour already and felt no inclination to leave. He always enjoyed visiting with Anne and Charles, and he also enjoyed his conversations with Miss Gilbride. Anne had been correct; Walter enjoyed a battle of wits, and Eileen was never afraid to challenge him and never hid her intelligence and quick mind, a refreshing change from most of the young ladies of his acquaintance. He appreciated her intellect and sometimes found himself making a mental note of something he had heard or read to pass on to her. He never purposely sought her out; they usually met at the Cottage, or when Eileen drove Michael to the parsonage. She often came in to speak with her brother's tutor, ostensibly for a few moments, which usually stretched into a half-hour of pleasant, lively conversation while Michael contentedly rifled the library shelves. Yet had anyone suggested to Walter that his attentions to Miss Gilbride were in any way particular, he would have been surprised. Gwendolyn Clay was a great deal too entrenched in his consciousness to admit thoughts of another.

As spring approached and the days grew steadily longer, Walter began to think about improvements to the parsonage. A shrubbery, he thought, would not go amiss; there was an empty meadow behind the enclosed garden that would suit admirably. He laid out a path and drafted a couple of menservants from Uppercross to dig up the turf, spread fine gravel, and plant shrubs. It would be an excellent, sheltered walk when the foliage grew sufficiently to offer shade and privacy. Walter regarded his creation with satisfaction and turned his attention to the long-neglected garden.

Here he was lost, and found himself obliged to consult Mrs. Wilson. She tore herself away from her work in the kitchen garden and was soon supervising the gardeners as they weeded, pruned, and planted. Walter came out to watch them from time to time, but rarely ventured an opinion. The garden seemed to him to be cleaner and in better order, but he felt little ownership of it.

They had a great deal of rain in early spring, but when the weather permitted, Walter took Michael out to the meadow in the afternoon to teach him the Uppercross brand of football. Michael had played some when he was younger and could dribble the ball quite well, but his kicks were usually off-target. They set up a makeshift goal between the shrubbery, and Michael entered into the activity with natural enthusiasm.

One afternoon they stayed out longer than usual. Walter suddenly noticed the angle of the sun and called his pupil to attention. "Your sister is probably waiting for you and swearing terrible oaths on tutors," he said as he pulled on his coat.

Michael made a face. "I know not why she thinks she must drive me around. Mr. Charles says I am fit to ride over by myself. Then she should never have to wait."

"Probably because it has rained for a time nearly every day this month, and she wants to be sure you will not take a chill." Walter affectionately pushed the boy through the door in the high stone wall that surrounded the flower garden.

Miss Gilbride stood in the garden, deep in consultation with Mrs. Wilson; she did not notice them until Michael playfully kicked the football in her direction. She stopped it expertly with one booted foot and kicked it back to him, then laughed at her brother's amazement. "I played football in my hoydenish girlhood," she reminded him. "I taught you, remember. Now go fetch your books. Father will be pining for his dinner." Michael picked up the football and ran off toward the house.

Mrs. Wilson said, "You've reminded me of my duty, miss; I must check on the rector's dinner. I will take your advice about the bulbs, though, and I thank you for it." She followed in Michael's wake, though a great deal more slowly.

Walter watched her limp away, his face troubled. "I should not have asked Wilson to take on so much of the work. She is not a young woman. It cannot be good for her to kneel in the dirt every day in this damp weather."

"I would not tell her that," said his companion with a smile. "She thrives on working in the garden. I confess I am sympathetic."

"The kitchen garden is enough of a responsibility for a woman of her years. I should hire a proper gardener."

"There is time enough for that. Allow her to finish what she has started. It is shaping well! You need to fertilize those beds, though."

Walter's shook his head. "Your wisdom is wasted on me, Miss Gilbride. I can tell the plants apart but as for that which makes them grow, I fully acknowledge that my information is deficient."

She tilted her head and looked up at him speculatively. "Very well. I have passed on some of my wisdom, as you call it, to Mrs. Wilson."

"I am sure that you will find her a most receptive audience."

Michael called impatiently from the sweep, and Walter offered Miss Gilbride his arm and escorted her out to the gig.

One warm, sunny morning about a week later, Walter heard a commotion outside the parsonage. He glanced through the library windows, which overlooked the sweep, and saw Miss Gilbride's gig with a wagon following behind. Michael looked on as his sister spoke to two menservants, who proceeded to unload boxes of tiny plants from the wagon. Walter went outside and confronted Eileen. "What is all this?" he asked her.

"I have brought you some plants that I started in the conservatory at Kellynch," she told him, winding a thick veil around the wide brim of her hat. "I have more than we shall ever use. The sun is terribly bright today, is not it? My skin is so fair that it burns in no time."

"Did Wilson ask you to bring these?" asked Walter.

"No, she did not." Miss Gilbride hesitated beside the wagon for a moment. "Do not neighbours exchange plants in Somerset?"

"I suppose so," said Walter doubtfully. "I would know nothing of it."

"Well, I am sorry if I have done something wrong," said Eileen with a smile that showed no remorse, and went into the garden. Walter watched her, frowning, then followed his pupil into the library.

After a few hours of study, Michael was restive, staring out the window at the sun-drenched landscape. Walter told him to take the football out to the meadow and went out to the garden. Eileen was there, a borrowed wrapper tied around her elegant driving costume, kneeling by a flower-bed and gently transferring young plants from the small pots to their new homes.

The cook looked up as Walter approached. "Mr. Musgrove, sir, was it not kind of Miss Gilbride to bring us these plants? I knew it was too late to put out seeds and thought we should have to make do with what we had."

Eileen sat back on her heels and regarded her work with satisfaction. "I am afraid some of these will not bloom until the autumn, but with what is already here, you should have something blooming at all times till the first frost."

"This is very kind of you, Miss Gilbride," said Walter, offering her his hand to help her rise. "However, I must insist that you let me call some of the men over from the Great House to do the planting."

"But I enjoy this! There is nothing more satisfying than the smell of newly-turned earth in the spring, drenched by the rain and warmed by the sun." She breathed deeply, her head tilted back, then gave a sigh of pure enjoyment.

Walter turned to the cook and asked, "Wilson, can you find some fruit or cold meat or something for young Michael? I dare say he will be complaining about his empty stomach soon enough."

The older woman limped back into the house and Walter turned back to Eileen. He hesitated, trying to frame the words in a way that would not offend her. "Miss Gilbride, please do not think that I am ungrateful. It is all very well to send over your extra plants, but I confess that I fear what people will say when word gets about that you are working in my garden. And I assure you that word will get about."

Eileen had removed the wrapper and undraped the veil from about her hat as he spoke, and her usually fair cheeks were becomingly pink; whether from the warmth of the sun or from something else, he could not tell. "I understand. I did not think about such things. I shall trouble you no more." She turned away and began to walk toward the sweep.

Walter ran after her and touched her arm. She stopped but did not turn around. "I am sorry," he said softly. "I did not express myself well. Thank you, again and again, for your generosity. I hope you and your family will visit the garden in June when the roses are blooming. It will be beautiful, and that is due in great part to your advice and help."

She gazed up at him for a moment thoughtfully, her eyes seemingly a deeper blue than normal; finally she gave him a faint smile. "You are welcome. I know you are trying to protect me from unkind gossip, and I thank you for it. My behaviour today was born of my concern about Mrs. Wilson, which I know you share, so I stepped in as best I knew how. I meant no harm."

"I know that," Walter assured her.

She shook his hand with her usual cordiality and left him alone in the garden.

"Did you give Mr. Michael and the rector their nuncheon, then, Mrs. Brumby?" The cook sat down with a heavy, satisfied sigh and inspected her teacup. "This scullery-maid is a great deal better than the last one, ma'am. I was tired of finding spots on my cups."

"Aye, that she is. A good, hard-working girl, but too pretty. We shall never keep her. One of the young bucks from the Great House will take her away and marry her and I'll have to start all over again with a new girl." The housekeeper poured a cup of tea and took her own seat. "There was not a scrap of food left of the nuncheon, ma'am. It does my heart good to see an appetite like young Mr. Michael's."

"It does indeed, Mrs. Brumby." Mrs. Wilson helped herself to a piece of shortcake. "He's a good lad, that one, a well-mannered young man, even if he does read too much."

"He does read a great deal, ma'am. More than the rector, more than Mr. Charles, even. He'll strain his eyes before he's finished, depend upon it. This shortcake is delicious, Mrs. Wilson."

"I thank you, ma'am. This is a particularly good batch, if I may say so myself."

"You may, ma'am."

Mrs. Wilson had no trouble picking up the various threads of their conversation. "The rector does his best to get Mr. Michael outside in the fresh air. That's what the boy needs, fresh air and exercise. He's to play in the football match, you know."

"Is he now? I wonder if his sister will like that."

"Miss Gilbride is a young lady of good sense, Mrs. Brumby, and kind to her brother, and she knows the rector would never lead him to harm."

"I will depend upon your information, ma'am, not being acquainted with the young lady." The housekeeper sipped her tea thoughtfully. "Do you think she's set her cap at the rector?"

"I think not. Miss Gilbride's not like the silly young things around here, throwing themselves at the rector's head."

"I am glad to hear that, ma'am. I confess that I was afraid that Miss Gilbride might be putting herself forward as she is spending so much time at the parsonage."

The cook shook her head firmly. "No, Mrs. Brumby, the young lady was being neighbourly, giving the rector some plants she had started. I am persuaded she meant no offense." She leaned closer to the housekeeper and said in a confidential tone, "You know Miss Gilbride has no mother, the poor thing. You can't blame her if she doesn't always know the right way to go on."

"I suppose not, Mrs. Wilson. I have observed, though, that the more retiring young ladies sometimes get more attention from the gentlemen than the bold, forward articles. Perhaps the rector will begin to like Miss Gilbride all the more for it."

"I must say, ma'am, that if he did it would not be such a bad thing."

Mrs. Brumby was much struck by this. "Indeed, Mrs. Wilson? You think Miss Gilbride would be a good wife for the rector?"

"I do, ma'am. She is a modest young woman who knows her place, and I hear in the village has a bit of money of her own."

"But her father is a tradesman, Mrs. Wilson! The rector's grandfather was a baronet! You know Mrs. Musgrove can be terrible proud sometimes."

"Tradesman's daughter or no, I would place Miss Gilbride ahead of some of the ninnyhammers hereabouts. That Clay creature, for one."

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilson, we are of one mind there. Though I feel I must point out that Miss Clay has been living very retired since she moved into Kellynch Lodge, and has a respectable widowed lady living with her, just as she should." She took another piece of shortbread and added, "And I think the rector likes her."

"Does he, now!"

"Aye. She's certainly a beautiful young lady, and they say in the village that the rector always stops to speak with her when they meet, the pair of them smelling of April and May."

"The rector could never marry her, though," said Mrs. Wilson. "She lived under the protection of a lord for a while, I hear. The rector wouldn't consider making such a disrespectable connection, no matter how beautiful the lady."

"He's just a man," said the housekeeper ominously.

"Aye, that he is," sighed the cook. "I'll take another cup of tea, Mrs. Brumby, if it's not too much trouble."

The last week or so of April was a gloomy one, and the day designated for the annual football match dawned ominously. Fortunately, it did not rain, though grey skies and a damp chill kept away some of the usual onlookers and seriously diminished the spirits of the brave souls who huddled around the field designated for the match, a disused meadow in Lower Barstow. The new grass had been closely cut, and was sure to be trampled into the mud not long after the game began.

Charles Musgrove regarded the field with his hands on his hips and an expression of intense satisfaction. Walter watched his brother with hidden amusement; Charles fulfilled the role of the young squire admirably the rest of the year, but on this day he was again a schoolboy, finding no greater pleasure in life than to play in the mud.

They were both wearing their oldest clothes and boots, though in Charles' case his oldest clothes were barely distinguishable from his newest, being equally shapeless and nondescript. The brothers had both cast off coats and waistcoats and wore their shirts unbuttoned at the neck, with the only nod toward respectability being a handkerchief knotted round Walter's throat. A pink ribbon was tied around Charles' upper arm, the ends fluttering improbably in the light wind. The ribbon was a tradition started by Charles himself a few years before, shortly after his marriage. He had teasingly stolen a ribbon from Anne's hat and tied it around his arm, claiming it as his lady's favour in the manner of knights at a jousting tournament. The other young men had quickly followed suit, begging similar favours from the young ladies who gathered for the game. These young ladies were not much interested in football but were clearly interested in the spectacle of young, healthy men engaged in athletic competition, and they bestowed these favours willingly. Some of the more forward gentlemen even collected more than one, their sleeves resembling a May-pole before they were finished.

Walter's arm remained bare of any such adornment; he had never solicited a ribbon from any young lady, and indeed had politely turned down the bold offers of some. This year, he toyed with the idea of requesting a ribbon from Gwendolyn Clay, but she had not yet turned up. This was something of a relief, as Walter had not yet decided how to proceed with his renewed attraction to Gwendolyn. He was unable to picture her happily sharing his quiet life at the parsonage; yet he did not like to think of giving up his profession.

A gig approached; though the top was up, Walter recognized it as Eileen Gilbride's, with Michael's horse trotting behind. He was a little surprised to see them, as Eileen had indicated that she would keep Michael at home if the weather did not moderate.

Michael called a greeting as he reined in his mount. Walter held the horse's bridle as Michael swung his leg casually over the front of the saddle and slid to the ground. The pale, sickly boy who had arrived in Somerset a few months earlier had virtually disappeared; outdoor exercise had filled out his gaunt frame and the weak spring sun had given his face some colour. He was turning into a rather well-looking young man, and a few of the younger ladies present watched Michael approvingly as he approached his tutor.

"Go on to the field," Walter told him with a grin. "Charles is waiting for you." Michael ran off, and Walter smiled up at Miss Gilbride. "It was good of you to bring him. Are you going to stay to watch?"

"Of course! Anne asked me to bring her all the details. Besides, if it rains very hard or grows too cold, I am going to take Michael home."

Walter glanced up at the sky, where the clouds seemed to be diminishing. "I do not think it will rain."

"Neither do I," Miss Gilbride sighed. "I have hardened myself to the idea of Michael rending and ruining his clothes with dirt. Some things in life are simply inevitable, and it can do no good to rail at the fates."

"I also feared you might be too busy with preparations for the ball to attend." At a dinner the previous week, Sir Bernard had heard some young people complaining about the dearth of engagements, and had immediately proposed a ball at Kellynch. He had been told that the neighbourhood was thin that time of year, but had persisted in his plans, and it was to be held the night after the match.

"No, my father has issued the invitations and given instructions to the servants," she said with a smile. "I really have nothing to do until the guests arrive."

Walter was amused by her lack of concern, knowing his mother's frantic preparations for a much smaller gathering. "That sounds like a most pleasant way to host a ball." He noticed that she had a ribbon tied around her wrist. "Your brother would not wear your favour?" he asked with a grin.

Eileen raised her eyebrows. "When you were fifteen, would you have worn your sister's favour?"

"An excellent point. Has no one asked for your favour, then?" Many of the young men had long-standing appointments with the ladies of their choice, and were already beribboned before they arrived at the field.

"No, and I'm not sure why I even brought it. Anne told me that I must bring the ribbon because it was an old and hallowed tradition."

Walter laughed. "Yes, it is an old and hallowed tradition of approximately three years' standing, and your respectful adherence is noted approvingly."

"Now that I am here, however," said Eileen, "I wonder if it would have been better to fly in the face of tradition. It must be a sore point to the ladies who stand on the sidelines pathetically clutching their bit of ribbon, and I would not be the object of scorn on that account."

Walter realized suddenly that he did not want that, either. "I would not have such a good friend as you the object of scorn, Miss Gilbride, so unless you have another victim in your sights, I would be proud to wear your favour."

"You would?" Her face showed her surprise. "I thought--well, are you certain?"

"Of course. Why not?" He grinned up at her. "You would not send me onto the field of battle alone and friendless?"

She offered no more opposition, but untied the ribbon from her wrist--azure blue, the color of her eyes and of her driving-habit--and retied it around his extended arm.

"The lowly soldier thanks you, madam." Walter made an elegant leg that belied the general shabbiness of his raiment.

Eileen clapped her fist to her shoulder in the manner of the Roman gladiators. "Those who are about to die, we salute you!"

Walter laughed and took his leave of her. The Uppercross men had gathered on one end of the field and he made his way toward them, picking his way through the crowd of onlookers, which was rapidly growing as the sun became brighter.

Someone called his name, and he looked up to see Gwendolyn Clay smiling at him from under her parasol. A smile of real delight crossed his face as he joined her. "So you decided to come out! I am glad to see you, love." He took her gloved hand and held it for a moment while he grinned at her rather stupidly.

"I have heard so much about this spectacle that I could not miss it."

Walter wondered idly where Gwendolyn had come by her information; from Eileen Gilbride, perhaps? Were they becoming friendly? His instincts told him that was unlikely.

"I was also told," she added, bringing forth a length of red ribbon from her reticule, "that I was to bring a favour, and that some kind gentleman would beg it from me. You are the first to approach me, but I see you have already been honoured," indicating the blue ribbon.

"There is no reason I cannot solicit the favour of two ladies," he said, adding hastily, "that is, if you wish to bestow your token upon me."

"I do," she said softly, looking him full in the eyes.

"Well, then," he said, just as softly, holding out his arm. "If you will be so kind, madam."

Gwendolyn tied the brightly-coloured ribbon just above Eileen's blue one. "There! I will be able to see it easily, I am sure." Her hand lingered warmly on his forearm.

"Not once it is covered with dirt," Walter said lightly.

"In that case, you need not return the ribbon," she said archly. "You may return the favour, however, by soliciting a dance tomorrow night at Kellynch. I fear I shall be relegated to the spinster aunts and widowed ladies if you do not take pity upon me."

"Somehow, I doubt that," he replied with a smile just as Charles impatiently called him. Walter bowed hastily and left her, only glancing over his shoulder once or twice as he made his way to the Uppercross end of the field.

The Uppercross men upheld the honour of their village with a rousing win, punctuated by Michael Gilbride scoring the final goal. Walter found him with Eileen after the game, his blue eyes shining through the mud that streaked his face, recounting the goal for his sister in excruciating detail. Walter's eyes caught Eileen's, and they exchanged a grin.

"Go on home, Michael," said Walter. "A gentleman does not bore ladies with his exploits on the playing field, the hunting field, or anywhere else for that matter. Remember that, if you remember nothing else I teach you."

Michael swung himself onto his horse and said, "I have other things I would ask you about ladies." He glanced over his shoulder at a group of giggling girls who were watching him and whispering amongst themselves.

"Later," said Walter warningly. He turned to Eileen. "I have come to return your favour, madam."

She eyed the now-muddy bit of ribbon with some distaste. "You may keep it."

"I thought you might say that." He bowed. "Until tomorrow night."

"Good-bye!" She drove away, laughing.

Back at the parsonage, he was greeted by a very disapproving Mrs. Brumby. "I know not why you gentlemen must cover yourselves in dirt for a game," she said, shaking her head as the manservant came past with two buckets of hot water for Walter's bath.

Walter found himself repeating Eileen Gilbride's words. "Football, my dear Mrs. Brumby, is the replacement for warfare in these peaceful times. Gentlemen must skirmish, and you will allow that this method is much less dangerous, and certainly much less dirty, than real war."

"I saw infantrymen come back from the Peninsula looking cleaner than you lot," the housekeeper grumbled, trundling down the passage.

Walter grinned and ran up the stairs to his dressing-room. The bathtub was soon filled with steaming water, and he began to undress. He slid the two ribbons from his arm and held them for a moment consideringly. He took up his wash-jug, went to the tub, and scooped up some of the warm water. He poured the water into his washbasin and dipped the ribbons into it. With a little encouragement, the mud was easily removed, though both ribbons bled a bit of dye into the water, turning it an odd shade of purple. When the ribbons were clean, Walter squeezed out the excess water, tied them together, and spread them on top of the table to dry. Satisfied, he went at last to the bathtub and lowered himself into it with a grateful sigh.

The Uppercross carriage rumbled up the gravel drive to the front door of Kellynch Hall. Walter descended first, then turned to help out his mother and father.

Light poured from the windows and doors of the grand stone manor as gentlemen in sober black evening suits led their ladies, clad in brightly coloured silk, to the entrance. More revelers could be seen through the windows of the drawing-room. Mrs. Musgrove looked at them suspiciously. "I hope we shall not be obliged to rub elbows with all the ragtag and bobtail of Somerset. I detest these vulgar great squeezes."

Walter exchanged a look with his father. Mrs. Musgrove had been fractious for several days; perhaps understandably, she found it disconcerting to be the guest of relative strangers at her childhood home. Walter imagined himself in the position of returning to Uppercross Hall in such a circumstance and tried to be sympathetic.

Candlelight bathed the elegant interior of the house, softening the hard lines and enveloping visitors in warmth. When Sir Bernard saw Mrs. Musgrove, he went to her immediately, took her hand, and patted it in the friendliest manner. "My dear Mrs. Musgrove, I welcome you to Kellynch."

"I thank you, sir," she replied, pleased at such marked attentions from her host. "I am delighted to be here." She looked around and sighed dramatically. "I have such fond memories of this house, my mother and my father--I am afraid I shall be overcome--Sir Bernard, if you would be so kind as to find me a seat?"

"By all means, my dear madam. Please come this way." He led her to one side of the room and established her in a chair along the wall.

Walter felt a tug on his elbow. It was Michael Gilbride, nervously correct in his new evening-suit. "Is my cravat right?" he asked in a whisper.

Walter surveyed him critically. "You look very fine tonight, sir! Have you engaged any young ladies to dance yet?" Walter and Eileen had spent the week teaching Michael various dances, and he had determined to stand up for every number.

"I am dancing the first with Miss Cecilia Hayter."

Walter smiled. "Wasting no time, are you? Well done, Michael!"

Michael grinned. "She is very easy to talk to. Did you know that she was at the match? She congratulated me on my goal, and asked me about the game, and then before I knew it I was asking her to dance, and she said yes." He looked a little dazed at the recollection.

"That is the way of it," Walter said, trying not to laugh. "Tread carefully, my friend; do not fall into the trap of allowing the ladies to flatter you into an unwise declaration."

"Michael, do not monopolize Mr. Musgrove," came a voice from behind them, which proved to belong to Eileen Gilbride. Walter stared for a moment in frank admiration. She wore a simple yet elegant silk dress in a shade of light sea-green with just enough blue in it to emphasize the colour of her eyes. Froths of fine lace cascaded from the tight-fitting sleeves and the off-the-shoulder neckline. A single strand of pearls and matching ear-drops were her only jewelry. Her hair, normally worn in a rather severe chignon, had been arranged in soft ringlets around her face with small white flowers tucked in here and there. She glowed warmly in the candlelight, as attractive as a roaring fire on a cold winter's day.

Walter swept an elegant bow. "Good evening, Miss Gilbride. Michael, I hope you have already claimed your dance, for I fear there will be few to go round."

"Dance with my sister?" cried Michael. "Must I?"

"Did it ever occur to you," said a very amused Eileen, "that I would not much care to dance with my brother?"

"Lucky for me," said Michael, visibly relieved.

"Fortunately, I need not be so nice," said Walter with a smile. "I hope you do not consider dancing with me such an unpleasant chore."

"Of course not," she said quietly. "I hope you will excuse me, sir. I must greet my guests."

The Wentworth family had just arrived, and Walter greeted his aunt with a kiss. She smiled up at him and said, "Walter, you grow more handsome every time I see you."

"My mother says I have the Elliot countenance," Walter responded lightly, "so if I am handsome, I have your family to thank."

"The Elliot countenance? No," said Lady Wentworth consideringly. "You have always reminded me of my mother's father, James Stevenson. Miss Gilbride," she called, turning toward Eileen, "is the portrait of Mr. Stevenson still in the Blue Saloon? Although I suppose it is not Blue anymore," she added.

"Is he the dashing gentleman in the pink satin coat?" asked Eileen with a smile. "Yes, he is still there. He watches over me as I do the household accounts."

"I would like to show the portrait to Walter. There is a resemblance there, do not you think?"

Eileen raised an eyebrow. "I have never noticed it, but then I have never seen Mr. Musgrove in pink satin."

"And you never shall," Walter assured her as she led the way to the Blue Saloon.

Despite Lady Wentworth's misapprehensions, the saloon was indeed blue; the wallpaper was a light, icy shade, the draperies were of darker blue velvet, and the furniture upholstered in various shades of blue stripes and damasks, accented with pillows of different shapes and sizes, all blue.

Lady Wentworth looked around appreciatively. "Miss Gilbride, this room is lovely! It looks very like it did when my family lived here. This was my mother's sitting room. But I seem to recall that Lady Elliot--the last Lady Elliot, that is--had redecorated."

"She did," said Eileen, with a small shudder. "In horrid, heavy dark red and purple. The housekeeper told me how it had been, and your son has generously allowed us to change whatever we like." She smiled shyly at Lady Wentworth. "It must be strange to come here as a guest, when this house was once your home."

"It is strange," Lady Wentworth admitted. "But seeing how charmingly you have fitted up this room has made it much easier. And there is my grandfather." She led them to a large portrait hanging on the far wall.

James Stevenson looked down on them benevolently. At first, Walter could not see any trace of himself in his great-grandfather's countenance; the colourful clothing and elaborate powdered wig stood in strong contrast to Walter's elegant black evening suit and carefully-arranged dark hair. However, there was something there--in the dark eyes, the high cheekbones, the strong jaw, the lips that quirked up at one corner with barely-hidden amusement--that hearkened to a family tie.

"Did people really dress like that when you were a girl?" Walter asked his aunt.

She laughed. "This was painted around the time my mother was born. By the time I was old enough to remember, most people had begun to relegate powdered wigs and satin coats to their footmen."

Walter glanced at Eileen, who was smiling at him. "What is it?" he asked her quietly.

"I am amused at my own silliness." She gave Mr. Stevenson an affectionate glance. "I have sat here idly and imagined all sorts of fascinating histories for this fellow--I have named him Louis, by the way, never having been informed of his identity--and now that the resemblance has been pointed out to me, I am trying to picture you as a deposed French aristocrat forced to make his living as a highwayman. I confess that I have always had a weakness for a rogue."

Walter deepened his voice and cried out in a very bad French accent, "Stand and deliver! Those pearls, mademoiselle, would make ze pretty toy for a certain opera-dancer back in Paree."

"My dear sir, I would very much like to oblige your--er--opera-dancer, but I cannot. This pistol that I carry in my reticule should serve as my pass."

"You would shoot a poor, deposed aristocrat who is merely trying to make his living? Recall how expensive is ze pink satin, mademoiselle!"

"I dare say not as expensive as the opera-dancer. I have sympathy for your unfortunate circumstances, sir, but I am persuaded that your lady is perfectly capable of supporting herself, without reference to my pearls."

"Walter! There you are!" Mrs. Musgrove stood in the doorway with Sir Bernard. "What are you doing in here? Sir Bernard and I have had a famous notion! You shall open the ball with Miss Gilbride! Who better to do it, after all, than the grandson of Sir Walter Elliot? If Charles had not been so stubborn about staying home with Anne tonight, I would have insisted that he do it, but this is probably for the best, as you are a much better dancer."

Walter glanced at Eileen. Her gaze was averted and her face showed a faint blush. "I would be delighted to do so, if Miss Gilbride is amenable."

"Of course," said Eileen quietly. "I thank you, sir." She passed him quickly without meeting his eyes and followed the others out of the room. Walter watched her with a frown, wondering at her sudden change of demeanour from friendly banter to a cold, embarrassed distance at the simple idea of dancing with him. He lingered a moment, gazing up at Mr. Stevenson, feeling an odd kinship with this man he had never met and wondering if he had understood the minds of women any better than his great-grandson.

In the passage between the drawing-room and the ballroom, he caught up with Eileen and touched her arm. "If you would prefer not to dance with me, Miss Gilbride--"

"No, no." She shook her head. "I am sorry that you have been forced into this. I know not what my father was thinking."

"I do not feel as though I have been forced into anything distasteful. I should very much like to dance with you." The musicians played a warning flourish, and Walter put out his arm.

Eileen smiled at him. "Have a care, sir; such gentleman-like behaviour might lead you to lose your dastardly reputation amongst the brotherhood of highwaymen!" She placed her gloved hand upon his arm and allowed him to lead her into the ballroom.

Something sparkling caught his eye, and he looked up almost involuntarily to see Gwendolyn Clay, clad in a gown of some shimmering stuff, standing to one side. Their eyes met; she smiled and bowed her head in acknowledgement just as a young man unknown to Walter claimed her hand for the dance. A bolt of envy struck him like cold steel in his heart.

Miss Gilbride proved to be a graceful dancer, the light silk of her dress swaying about her legs as they moved through the set. However, Walter found it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand; his eyes kept moving to Gwendolyn and her partner, a dandyish young man that Walter thought must be one of his cousin George Hayter's set. At last the music stopped, and Walter once again became aware of his partner. He thought rather guiltily that he should apologize for being inattentive, but to his relief, Eileen simply murmured an excuse and slipped away.

He found Gwendolyn sitting alone in a corner, delicately working out non-existent wrinkles from her elbow-length gloves under the disapproving scrutiny of several matrons.

"Those old cats are watching you like you've stolen their cream," he said with a grin.

Gwendolyn flicked her eyes in their direction, then back to her task. "Spiteful creatures! I shall not let them ruin my evening."

"Do you think a waltz with the rector would raise your reputation in their eyes?"

She smiled up at him. "More likely bring down yours, but if that is an invitation, I accept."

A few moments later, they were whirling about the floor, her trim waist tucked into the curve of his arm. Walter had eyes for no other; there was only Gwendolyn, the muted light sparkling from her diamond necklace and the silver-embroidered net of her gown. Later, he could not remember what they talked about, only that there was laughter and a sense of dizzying joy in having her once more in his arms. He thought that everyone must be watching them, watching her, the men wishing that they could take his place, and there was triumph in the thought that he alone knew of the very private delights of Gwendolyn Clay's company.

It seemed only a moment until the music stopped, and Walter reluctantly escorted his partner to a chair. The eyes of the matrons, and at least one raised lorgnette, were upon them, so he simply gave her hand a significant squeeze, bowed, and left her.

Walter wandered about the room, trying to keep a silly grin from his face, never thinking to ask the hopeful ladies sitting down to be his partner. It would have diluted his happiness, to dance with another woman after being so close to Gwendolyn, so close that he could still smell her perfume. Miss Clay had already obtained another partner, and Walter watched them dance with benevolent approval. It was very right and proper that she should not sit out.

At the beginning of the next set, Walter was at last able to bring himself to partner other ladies. He would not ask Gwendolyn again, not yet; he would save that happiness for later, after the supper break. After a string of forgettable partners, he saw his cousin Sophie Wentworth sitting down by herself, and went to her.

"I hope you saved me a dance," he said with a smile.

Sophie looked up at him sadly. "I do not care to dance."

"What's this?" he cried in mock astonishment. "Sophie Wentworth, not dancing at a ball? Have you turned your ankle, love? Do you have the headache?"

"No, of course not," she said, lifting her chin proudly. "I just do not care to dance, that is all."

"You will dance with me. I shall brook no argument. Come along, now." He took her hand and tried to pull her to her feet.

Sophie resisted, protesting, "I have already denied other gentlemen. You will make a fool of me."

"Nobody can censure your taking pity on your poor clerical cousin. Come along." He finally succeeded in raising her from the chair. Sophie glared at him resentfully but allowed him to lead her away.

She was clearly in low spirits, and as Walter had high spirits to spare, he tried to impart some of them to his cousin. By the end of the set, she was smiling, but she was still not the lively Sophie of old.

"Come in to supper with me," he coaxed her. "I will fetch you some lemonade, and perhaps they have some of those lobster patties you like."

Sophie heaved a dramatic sigh and reluctantly preceded him into the supper room. Walter found two chairs, installed Sophie at one of them, and went off to fetch the refreshments. The room was crowded, and it took some time to obtain them; when he returned he found George Hayter in the chair next to Sophie, whispering in her ear, while she wore a look of profound distaste.

George had come down from Oxford a few years before and had gathered about him a set of young men with more fashion than sense who fancied themselves not unlike the Corinthians of their fathers' time. They never seemed to understand that the indulgence of such pretensions amid the rural farms of southern Somerset only made them laughably absurd.

"Here you are, Sophie," Walter said lightly, placing the plate of lobster patties and a glass of lemonade on the little table. "Some cold lemonade, as promised. Drink it before it gets warm. I wouldn't let them put it in a silver cup, either; makes it taste odd, if you ask me."

"I can fetch you something better to drink than that," George said to Sophie, who rolled her eyes.

"I know not what is the practice at Oxford these days, coz," said Walter genially, "but at Cambridge it was considered very bad ton to monopolize another fellow's supper partner. Move along, now."

"Do you want me to leave?" George murmured to Sophie.

"Oh, do go away," she cried, sinking her head in her hand.

"Yes, run along, cub," said Walter, seizing his cousin by the elbow and pulling him to his feet. "I think the lady has made herself quite clear."

George made as if to assume a fighting stance, and Walter added quietly, "If you create a disturbance at this ball, your father shall hear of it. Go away now and it will remain between us." George stared at him for a moment, then lowered his head and stalked away.

"Heaven preserve me from violent young lovers," Walter said to Sophie as he took the vacated chair. "'Tis a shame that my uncle Hayter did not make George take orders, or find him some other profession. It might have been the making of him." Sophie was silent, and after a moment Walter added, "You used to like George. Did he do something to change your mind, love?"

She idly twisted the glass of lemonade this way and that. "No, nothing very bad."

"'Nothing very bad?' But he did something?"

Sophie took a delicate sip and said, "I let him kiss me, just once, and he has not left me alone since." She glanced over at Walter and added, "You tried to warn me, and you were right."

Walter patted her arm. "Letting a fellow steal a kiss is no great sin, Sophie. It certainly does not give my cousin the right to importune you when you have made your preferences clear. I shall speak to my uncle about it."

"Oh, no!" cried Sophie. "George is so afraid of his father--I do not want to get him in trouble."

"I doubt he would show you the same consideration, love, but I shall respect your wishes." They sat quietly for a moment, and then Walter added, "You know that if any man is bothering you, and you do not wish to tell your father, that you may depend upon me at any time. You are not alone, Sophie. I promised Edward that I would watch out for you while he is away. Look upon me as acting in the place of a brother."

Sophie smiled at him with real sweetness, and Walter reflected that she was a much more attractive girl when she let go of her affectations. "Thank you, Walter." She offered him the plate of lobster patties, which he declined, and she applied herself to them with relish.

Sir Bernard stopped at the table, crying out genially, "Mr. Musgrove! Miss Wentworth! I hope you are enjoying yourselves!"

"I think my cousin is enjoying the lobster patties, sir," said Walter with a grin. Sophie's mouth was full, so she just nodded.

"Capital! Mr. Musgrove, can I interest you in a wee glass of whiskey?" He proffered a bottle nearly full of a light amber-coloured liquid.

Walter eyed it doubtfully. "I have never tasted whiskey." This was true enough; a brief and disastrous experimentation with gin in his schooldays had led him to confine himself to wine and brandy, and he rarely drank either to excess.

"Never tasted good Irish whiskey? Well, that is an oversight that we must remedy!" Sir Bernard snapped his fingers at a servant, who hastened over with two tumblers. Sir Bernard poured generous portions and handed one glass to Walter. "Sláinte!"

Walter sipped cautiously, expecting the liquor to burn like brandy; to his surprise, it rolled over his tongue like velvet and slipped gently down his throat, spreading warmth all the way down and out to his limbs, and leaving behind a slightly sweet, fruity aftertaste. He sipped again, and again, and soon Sir Bernard was refilling his glass.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Please join me in a toast!" the older man cried, turning to the assembled company. "To her Majesty, the Queen!"

Everyone dutifully rose, repeated the toast, and drank, except for Eileen Gilbride. She remained seated at one end of a long table, staring mutely at the glass of champagne sitting on the table in front of her. There was an embarrassed silence, and Sir Bernard hastily lifted his glass again and said, "To Lieutenant Wentworth, the absent lord of this fine manor!"

This time, everyone drank; more toasts were proposed, and Sir Bernard kept a strict eye on Walter's glass, refilling it before he could ask. Sophie begged a taste, and Walter allowed her to sip from his glass; she made a face and took a gulp of lemonade, making her cousin laugh.

Before supper was over, Walter's glass was refilled several more times, and because of the pleasant warmth and light taste of the whiskey, and because he was seated, he did not realize how the liquor affected him until he tried to stand up to take Sophie back into the ballroom. The room swam in front of him; he reached out and clutched the arm of the chair, and hastily sat down again.

"Can ya wait a momen', love?" he slurred to Sophie.

She stared at him in amazement for a moment, and then laughed aloud. "You're foxed! I am not surprised; you drank enough of that whiskey to float a frigate."

"Wasn' dat mush," he protested weakly.

Sophie rolled her eyes. "I wonder what is worse: having your partner pester you for a kiss or having him get drunk at supper. At least George Hayter is still capable of dancing."

"I don' wanna kiss," he muttered.

"That is well, for you shall not get one."

"You go back an' dance," he said, pushing her toward the door. The room was empty except for servants gathering discarded dishes and glasses.

Sophie stopped teasing and looked at him gravely. "Are you sure? Can I get you something?"

"No, no, jus' gotta res' a bit."

"Very well," she said doubtfully, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "There, you get a kiss for being sweet earlier, though I'm sure you don't deserve it."

"Thanks, love," he said, grinning at her, and she smiled and left him.

Walter sat for a moment, enduring the amused and knowing glances of the servants, and then remembered the large French windows in the Blue Saloon. He rose unsteadily and lurched out of the supper room, down the passage to the now-darkened apartment, occasionally bumping into walls along the way. He made his way to the windows, yanked them open, and breathed deeply of the cool night air, feeling more sober with each breath.

"Walter?" said a female voice behind him. For a moment he thought it might be Sophie, and then he turned and saw Gwendolyn. The sight of her in the moonlight cascading through the windows made him smile. "I saw Sophie come back from supper by herself and I came looking for you. Are you ill?"

"You look like a midsummer night," he said, grinning at her stupidly. "Your hair is the moon, your dress and your skin are a beam of moonlight, and your diamonds are the stars." He took a step toward her, and realized too late that his assessment of his relative sobriety had been misleading; the room spun, and he lurched as he tried to walk.

Gwendolyn stared at him for moment, then cried in tones of disgust, "You are drunk!"

Walter clutched the window frame and muttered, "Just a trifle bright in the eye, love."

"Bright in the eye indeed!"

The coldness in her eyes was distressing to Walter, who murmured, "Don't be angry, pretty Gwen. You look so pretty tonight, please don't be angry with me."

He reached out for her; she pulled back with a low cry of distaste, but Walter was too quick. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him inexorably, murmuring endearments. Then his arm was about her waist and his mouth upon hers, and for a moment it was like it had always been; the memory of the way their bodies fitted together, the way her waist felt in the curve of his arm, coursed through him like fire in his veins. Then, through the waves of inebriation, he slowly became aware that Gwendolyn was struggling to free herself from his embrace. He released her immediately, and received a stinging box on the ears as payment.

"How dare you!" she cried. "Who do you think you are, that you can get drunk and manhandle me? I swore I would never allow myself to be so ill-used again, not by any man--not even by you, Walter Musgrove!"

Walter leaned back against the window frame and touched the side of his face gingerly. The slap had sobered him somewhat; in his new clarity, he suddenly remembered that he had seen her diamond necklace before.

"I beg your pardon," he said coldly, "but you are not quite the picture of moral rectitude, you know. Not standing there wearing that necklace that Dalton gave you in payment for--services rendered. I wonder, what liberties might I be allowed if I gave you a diamond necklace?"

Gwendolyn stared at him a moment, her hand moving instinctively to her throat, where the diamonds sparkled provocatively. "I do not know what you mean."

"You forget, Gwen. I was there when Dalton gave it to you."

"I did forget." She fingered the necklace nervously. "I have just got it out of pawn. I lived off the money from this necklace for two years, until--"

"Until your stepfather conveniently died and left you a fortune. Also in payment for services rendered, I believe." Walter knew he was being unnecessarily cruel, but could not stop himself.

Gwendolyn glared at him. "I only allowed Dalton's attentions then to get the necklace, or some other trinket. He was free with them. I planned to sell it, to give us a start, let us get a house, get married. I did it for you--for us. You were never meant to know."

"I see. I was never meant to know. And I suppose that, the next time we were feeling a trifle purse-pinched, you would fall back into Dalton's arms and get another trinket to sell, while I go about in contented ignorance. And everyone could say, 'Poor Walter Musgrove, so besotted he knows not when he is being cuckolded.' If you think I would consent to live on money got in such a way and never ask questions about it, Gwen, then you do not know me at all."

"No," she said softly. "I begin to think that I do not know you." She turned and fled from the room.

Walter watched her leave in righteous silence. All his happiness from earlier was gone; he could no longer look at Gwendolyn without seeing the necklace, without thinking of her in Dalton's arms. The pain of her betrayal that he had kept at bay for three years, that he thought was gone forever, returned with a vengeance, and he made his way to a sofa and collapsed upon it.

He lay on his back, one foot still on the floor and one leg hanging over the scrolled arm of the sofa. When he closed his eyes, the room immediately locked into a tight spin, increasing in speed until he felt the weight of it would crush him. He reached out, desperately trying to anchor himself to earth; when his hand made contact with the cool wall, the spinning stopped at last.

A warm wave of sleep washed over him, and he dozed for a time, waking when he heard voices in the room. The sofa lay in shadow, and he could not be seen, as long as he did not speak or move to give himself away. His senses were a little fuzzy, and he was comfortable, and very much inclined to just stay there on the sofa for a while.

"Why did you not join my toast to the Queen, girl?" Walter recognized Sir Bernard's voice, now uncharacteristically subdued.

"You know why, Da." That was Eileen, the Irish lilt more pronounced than usual.

It's like music, Walter thought, a smile spreading across his face. Her voice is like music. Or like water tumbling over rocks in a brook.

"You embarrassed me in front of our neighbours."

"I am sorry if I did, but you know how I feel about this subject. Next time give me a hint and I'll leave the room first." Walter could not see her, but knew the impish grin that she was wearing as she spoke.

"You're so like your mother, Eibhlín. And not just in looks."

"Too much for your comfort, I know."

"Aye. You're a proud, stubborn girl, and I love it in you as I loved it in your mother."

Walter turned his head slightly, and in the light of the single candle they had brought with them, he could see that father and daughter were embracing. He smiled and turned away, not wishing to intrude on their privacy.

"I had best get back to our guests. Will you come?"

"In a moment."

The door closed, and Walter heard Eileen moving across the room toward the French windows. He looked up and saw that she was preparing to close them, and he said sharply, "No! Please don't!" He tried to sit up but only succeeding in falling off the sofa into a heap on the floor.

"Who's there?" cried Eileen in alarm.

"Walter Musgrove," he said, rather sheepishly.

"Mr. Musgrove?" There was a note of concern in her voice as she advanced on him with the candle. "Are you ill?"

"No, not precisely." Walter managed to pull himself onto the sofa. His head felt heavy and his movements were slow and deliberate. Eileen was staring at him, her brow creased in concern, so he added, "I am afraid I was a trifle overset by your father's whiskey."

"Good heavens! How much did he give you?"

"I am not sure," Walter admitted. "Five or six glasses--perhaps seven." Eileen burst out laughing, and he added defensively, "They were not very large glasses."

"They would not have to be," replied Eileen, very much amused. "I apologize, sir. My father does not always realize that other men have not his capacity. He was only trying to be a good host, I assure you."

"I do not blame your father," Walter sighed. "I could have refused. I suppose I should have."

"Shall I fetch your parents?"

Walter groaned and leaned his head back. "No. I would not have my mother make a scene at your ball. If you will lend me a horse, I can ride back to Uppercross."

"Certainly not," declared Eileen. "I shall not be responsible for you riding into a tree. If you wish it, I will order my father's carriage."

"Not yet," said Walter, reaching out to her. "Will you stay and talk with me for a while?"

"You want me to stay with you?" she asked softly.

"Yes, if you will." He gave her a lopsided grin. "I am not quite ready to go home, and I like talking to you."

Eileen hesitated, bunching her skirt in her hands nervously; finally she said, "Very well," and perched next to him on the sofa, which was only large enough to seat two.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the evening breeze stir the gauzy white inner curtains at the open French doors. Eileen ventured, "I suppose you heard my conversation with my father."

"I apologize. I did not mean to eavesdrop."

"Oh, I know that," she said, turning toward him hastily. "I just thought perhaps--you might be wondering why I did not join in the toast to the Queen."

"You need not tell me."

"No, I want to. I hope you will not think badly of me." She hesitated, then said quickly, "I am really very happy here in Somerset. Everyone is friendly and welcoming, but--"

"It is not your home," said Walter gently.

"That is not it," said Eileen reflectively. "I feel very much at home here, more so than I did in Dublin, even. In a way, I am afraid of becoming too much at home, as though if I forget Ireland, forget where I come from, it would be an affront to my mother's memory. My father does not understand. He thinks we are better off here than we were there, and he is probably right. He is from the North of Ireland, from Ulster. He was raised a Protestant. As a boy, he never knew the common prejudice that is practiced against Catholics in Ireland, even now."

"The law has given Catholics the same rights as Protestants."

"On paper, perhaps, but in practice--the poor of Ireland live in such degrading conditions, Mr. Musgrove! They are much worse off than the poor of England, if you can imagine it. Scrambling to grow potatoes on whatever tiny bit of land they can find for exorbitant rent, hoping those potatoes will last the winter so their families do not starve. I read in the newspaper that in America, the potatoes have a disease, a blight that causes them to rot in the ground. If that blight should ever pass to Ireland, I shudder to think what would happen to the poor." Eileen sighed and shook her head. "We were a great deal better off than most. My father traveled around Ireland as a young man; that is how he met my mother in Kerry. She agreed to marry him only if he would stay in the south. My mother's people were farmers, and my father rented a bit of land and raised pigs."

"Pigs?" asked Walter in surprise. "But now, he--"

"Oh, no," Eileen laughed. "Not anymore."

"What is your father's business?"

"You don't know?" Walter shook his head, and Eileen explained, "In his youth, he worked as a linen-weaver. When my mother passed on, he took Michael and me to Dublin and set up as an agent for linen-weavers who wished to export their goods. Later, he began to export wool as well."

Walter listened to the history in silent fascination. Eileen continued, "When we lived in Kerry, it pained my father to see how the Protestant landowners persecuted the poor Catholics, and they treated him as badly as any other. He begged my mother to let him take us north, but she could not bear to leave the land of her birth. My father did not want Michael and me to suffer that prejudice. I cannot blame him for taking us away, for trying to give us more--believe me, I've no desire to return to the pig farm. It is just that everything my father does to make us more English makes us less Irish, and sometimes I feel as though if I countenance it, I am being unfaithful to my mother's memory. That is why I did not join the toast tonight." She looked up at Walter with a rueful smile. "I should not have embarrassed my father in front of everyone, but I fear I have never chosen my battles skillfully."

Silence wrapped round them again. Walter felt that after their brief conversation, he had learned more about Eileen that night than he had in all the months of their acquaintance. Suddenly he turned to her and said, "I have a question."

Eileen glanced at him warily. "Yes?"

"Did your father call you Evelyn just now?"

She laughed softly. "He called me Eibhlín."

"Ev-leen?" Walter repeated doubtfully.

"That is my name, really, though 'Eileen' is easier for English tongues." Her smiled faded, and she added, "It was my mother's name. My father rarely uses it, anymore."

"Eibhlín," Walter said dreamily. "'Tis a pretty name. Does it have a meaning?"

"Yes, it means 'light.' 'Sunlight,' really.'"

Walter smiled. "It suits you." She looked at him questioningly, and he explained, "You light up a room when you enter it."

She stared at him for a moment, her surprise evident; then a smile spread across her face, and her voice held its usual bantering tone when she said, "That is a very pretty compliment, sir. Are you taking lessons from your friend Louis?" indicating the picture of Mr. Stevenson, which hung above the sofa.

"Oui, mademoiselle," Walter murmured, leaning closer to her. "I still have my eye on ze pearls. Do not forget, I am a rogue."

"That is well," she said softly, "for I am very fond of rogues." There was a moment's silence, and then Eileen said, "Now that I have done wearying you with my family history, shall I order the carriage?"

"Please do."

"Very well. If you like, rather than walk through the house, you may go out through the French windows. Turn right and walk straight ahead and you will come to the driveway. I will tell the coachman to meet you there."

Eileen rose and extended her right hand for her usual handshake. Walter took it and pressed her palm to his lips, then to his cheek. "Good night, sweet Eibhlín."

She smiled and caressed his face gently, as if touching something infinitely precious. "Good night, Louis," she whispered, and a moment later, she was gone.

"Louis! Where are you?"

"In the garden!" he called, lifting his head from the sofa.

She was there, clad in a shimmering gown, one moment sea-green, another moment blue as the summer sky. Her hair gleamed in copper waves around her shoulders and down her back. "Darling Louis!" she cried, stretching out her hands.

He pulled her onto his lap, and she came willingly, laughing. Her eyes had never been so blue, and the silk of her gown was soft under her hands as he kissed her lips, her white throat, and ran his hands through the glossy strands of her hair…

Walter opened his eyes and sat up, his heart pounding. He looked around and tried to acclimate himself to his surroundings. In a heartbeat he had gone from sofa in his garden to his own bed. He had fallen into bed in the shirt and trousers he had worn to the ball, his coat lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed, and there was a terrible taste in his mouth. He lay back down and groaned softly, trying to gather the unraveled threads of his dream. How had the sofa from the Blue Saloon at Kellynch got into his garden? And why was Eileen's hair unbound? And why, for heaven's sake, was he kissing her? Kissing her rather passionately, too. He would not kiss Eileen that way, the way he had kissed Gwendolyn.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, and then moved his head experimentally; no, no headache, strangely enough, though his body was stiff and his eyes heavy with fatigue. The events of the previous night came back to him, though imperfectly. Gwendolyn's face swam before him, as did Sophie Wentworth's, and Eileen Gilbride's. Gwendolyn was in his arms, and then Eileen--no, he had not kissed Eileen. Had he? He tried to recall the last moments he had spent at Kellynch--he remembered Eileen's hand, soft and cool upon his fevered cheek, but he could not remember kissing her, except in his dream; but the dream had felt very real.

Finally he tossed back the tangled sheet and rose. He stumbled over his dress shoes, which were lying by the side of the bed where he had dropped them the night before, and impatiently kicked them out of the way and rang for hot water. When he was dressed, Mrs. Brumby had his breakfast ready, the usual tea and toast, a grateful repast to a rebellious stomach. By the time Miss Gilbride's gig pulled up outside the parsonage, Walter felt equal to walking outside to meet it, and more importantly, equal to meeting Miss Gilbride.

Michael had already climbed down from the gig, and greeted Walter with all the brightness of youth, as if he had not danced until long past midnight. Walter sent him into the house and turned to Eileen. "Please accept my apologies for my behaviour last night."

She smiled warmly. "No apology is necessary. You are not the first man I've seen overcome by a bottle. At least you did not--what is that saying? Cast up your accounts?--in the Blue Saloon!"

"Let us thank Providence for small mercies," he replied gravely, imagining the mortification of vomiting on one of the elegant blue cushions.

Eileen's eyes sparkled appreciatively. "How is your head?" she asked.

"Not as bad as I would have expected," he admitted.

"Good Irish whiskey will not give you a bad head," she said with authority.

"Now you sound like your father." Walter's glanced at Eileen's gloved hands, deftly holding the whip and the reins, and remembered the cool white hand that had rested against his cheek. He cleared his throat and stepped back from the gig, hoping that he was not blushing. "I shall not keep you," he said to cover his confusion. "I am sure you have much to do."

"I promised Anne that I would come to the Cottage today and tell her all about the ball."

"You might as well tell her about my execrable conduct," Walter said with a faint smile. "Depend upon it, by tonight your father's coachman will have told his cronies down at The Smiling Weasel how the rector had to be taken home in his cups. The news will be all over the neighbourhood by tomorrow."

"I hold that it is not a bad thing for a man of God to be seen as having human failings from time to time." She saluted him with her whip and drove away.

At the Cottage, Anne was ensconced on a sofa with her feet propped upon a cushioned bench. "My dear Eileen!" she cried, stretching out a hand. "You have saved my life! I feel as though I shall run mad, sitting here with no company!"

"Where is your husband?"

"At the stables." Anne smiled ruefully. "Poor, dear Charles! No one could be kinder, and yet I take out all my frustrations on him. I snapped at him shamefully not an hour ago, and he ran away. I do not blame him a bit." She drew a deep breath and rubbed a hand along the small of her back.

Eileen settled herself in the chair opposite the sofa and pulled out her embroidery. "It will all be over with soon."

"That is what I keep telling myself. It is just that I am so restless! How I long to take Wamba out for a good, hard gallop!" She rubbed at her back again. "Well, now you are here to distract me. Tell me all about the ball! Did you dance? What did you wear?"

"I wore a new gown that you have not seen, a blue-green silk with lace on the sleeves. Oh, and thank you for sending Rose to do my hair! I received ever so many compliments."

"You are very welcome. I wish I could have seen you! With whom did you dance?"

Eileen was threading her needle with great attention. She said evenly, "I opened the ball with Mr. Walter Musgrove."

"Did you?" Anne's eyes sparkled. "Walter is a delightful dancer, is not he?"

"Mr. Musgrove is an excellent dancer, yes."

Anne waited for more, but was disappointed. At last she said, "I am persuaded that you made a handsome couple."

"Oh, Anne!" Eileen stopped working and fixed an exasperated gaze on her friend. "When my father acts the matchmaker it is quite the outside of enough! I had thought better of you!"

"I am not trying to make a match," said Anne quietly. "But I do not attempt to deny that such a match would make me very happy." Eileen was silent. After a moment, Anne ventured, "Eileen, do you like Walter?"

Eileen considered for a long moment. Finally she said thoughtfully, "He listens to me. Really listens to me, you see? Not with an air of patronizing the bluestocking, but as though he is truly interested in what I have to say. I like talking to him, and I think he likes talking to me." She smiled at Anne, and added in a more cheerful tone, "It would not signify if I liked him, anyway. He could not take his eyes from Miss Clay the entire evening. Now, there is a handsome couple! You should see them waltz!"

Anne noticed Eileen's neat evasion of her question, but let it drop. "If Miss Clay was displaying as much of her bosom as is her custom, I do not doubt that he stared."

Eileen giggled. "Well, she does have an abundance of bosom to cover. I dare say she saves a great deal of money by having her gowns cut low."

"Detestable creature! I do wish she would take her claws out of Walter once and for all."

"I gather there is a history between them," said Eileen, to Anne's ears somewhat disingenuously.

"There is a history, though I have never asked Walter about it. I know she was dangling after him before Charles and I were married, but she went away, and I, for one, hoped it was for good."

"Mr. Musgrove is a grown man," said Eileen. "He may be trusted to choose his own wife."

"That is just the rub," Anne complained. "They would not suit at all. Can you imagine Gwendolyn Clay living quietly in the parsonage? Going out to call on the poor and sick in that ridiculous carriage of hers, with a liveried footman to carry her reticule? No, depend upon it, she would lure Walter away from Uppercross, and he would end up like her brother, dissipated and debt-ridden." Suddenly she gasped and put her hand to her lower back.

"What is it?" asked Eileen in some alarm.

"It is nothing. I have been having pains in my back since yesterday." Anne smiled ruefully. "I am well-paid for my ill-natured gossiping, I suppose!"

Walter was in no humour for tutoring, and Michael liked learning no better, so Walter set him a simple lesson and wrote a letter. At one point he glanced up and nearly laughed aloud. Michael was staring off into space, Cicero forgotten; his elbow was propped on the table and his chin rested on his hand. His eyes were dreamy, and he wore a faint smile. Walter sighed internally at this rather obvious example of a young man in the throes of his first love. Now we are in for it!

He waved a hand in front of Michael's face, making him jump guiltily. "May I ask who inspires this reflective mood? If it is my cousin Cecilia Hayter, I warn you, her brother Frank is a crack shot. It would not do to trifle with her."

"I haven't even kissed her yet," Michael objected.

"Yet? Have you plans in that direction, sir?" With an effort, Walter kept his face stern.

"Well, no, but…" Michael trailed off, blushing.

"I am glad to hear it. My aunt Hayter is rather relaxed with her daughters, but I should not like to hear of you taking advantage of my cousin."

"No, sir."

"Very well." Walter regarded his pupil fondly. "Fear not, I shall not comb your hair for liking Cecy. It is very natural, I suppose. She has grown into a pretty little thing."

"Miss Hayter," Michael said dreamily, "is the loveliest young lady I have ever seen!"

"And I am sure you have seen a vast number," observed Walter in some amusement. "How old is Cecy, anyway? Surely she is still in the schoolroom?"

"She is sixteen, and just finished with school."

"You are only fifteen," Walter reminded him.

"I shall be sixteen in two weeks!"

"So you shall. And before you reach your majority, I predict that my cousin will be long-forgotten and that you will fall in love with a score of pretty girls."

Michael looked at him skeptically and returned to Cicero with a world-weary shake of the head.

After another unproductive hour, Walter gave his charge leave to close his book. "When will your sister return?"

"I am to walk to the Cottage when I am finished."

For a moment, Walter was strongly inclined to accompany him. To sit with Eileen, to talk with her--yes, flirt with her, to make her laugh, to watch her eyes light with amusement, was a powerful temptation. However, after his lecture to Michael, Walter was acutely aware of another call he must make.

At Kellynch Lodge, he presented his card to the footman and asked for Miss Clay. The footman disappeared for a long moment, then returned with the intelligence that Miss Clay was not at home. Walter was quite sure that Gwendolyn was in the house, but did not press the matter. Clearly she was no more inclined to see him than he was to see her, but she had to know that he was there to apologize, and her denial annoyed him.

As he rode back to Uppercross, Walter pondered on his goddess and her tumble from the pedestal upon which he had placed her. It was now clear to him that his feelings for Gwendolyn were not of the nobler sort, manifested in his ungentlemanly behaviour the previous night. Since her return to Somerset, Gwendolyn had flattered, and flirted, and flouted her many attributes, and Walter had fallen for it like the veriest greeny; but he no longer loved her as he once had. He had made a cake of himself over the woman in front of the world, and the evidence of his fall from dignity was necessarily mortifying.

When Walter arrived at the stables, he dismounted, handed the reins to a groom, and went in search of his brother. Charles was in the tack room, shirt sleeves rolled back over his elbow, carefully grooming Wilfred. Walter sat upon an upended barrel and watched. The big horse seemed dignified even with its head immobilized by the cross-ties. Charles had lifted one of the creature's front hooves and was carefully cleaning the mud from it with an iron pick. When the operation was completed, he released the hoof and exchanged the pick for a comb, which he used to smooth the tangles in Wilfred's mane. The horse was unconcerned, accustomed to his master's gentle handling. The methodical grooming was relaxing to watch, and Walter leaned back against the plain board walls.

"So, Walter!" said Charles as he combed the mane. "How was the ball?"

"Well, I got drunk on Irish whiskey and made an ass of myself," Walter drawled.

Charles laughed, and then glanced over at his brother and said in surprise, "You are not joking!"

"No, I am not. I wish I were."

"Did you take off your clothes and dance on the lawn?"

"I am afraid not. I kissed Gwendolyn Clay."

Charles did not laugh at the revelation. "In front of all the company?"

"No, thankfully. We were alone in the Blue Saloon." Walter was silent for a moment, and then added, "She boxed my ears for it."

"Good for her! Though I wonder what she thought might occur during a private assignation in the Blue Saloon. It is not as though she were not…worldly."

"No. Perhaps that is why I have always been attracted to her: we are a great deal alike."

"No!" Walter glanced up in surprise at the vehemence in his brother's response. Charles had stopped his activity and was glaring at Walter. "You are not heartless, Walter. You would not have betrayed her as she betrayed you." Wilfred, sensing his master's mood, shifted his hooves restlessly, and Charles automatically placed a hand on the horse's neck.

Walter felt he must rise to Miss Clay's defense. "You do not know Gwen," he said. "She has her reasons for what she does. She is not heartless, not really."

"She betrayed you once," said Charles, turning back to his task. "She would do it again. Do not lose your head over such a woman."

There was a commotion outside the tack room, and Rose, the Uppercross Cottage maidservant, ran into the tack room. "Mr. Charles!" she cried breathlessly.

"What is it, Rose?"

She gazed at Charles with wide eyes, clutching at her chest and trying to catch her breath. "It's time, sir!"

"Time?" Charles stared at her in consternation; then his face cleared as her meaning dawned. "Oh! Time!" He turned about a few times, unsure of what to do next. Finally he put down the grooming comb. "Has someone sent for the midwife?"

"Yes, sir, Thomas went to fetch her."

"Good, good." Charles raked his hand through his hair. "Rose, run to the Great House and tell my mother, and bring her back to the Cottage." The girl nodded and ran out.

Charles turned to Walter. "Will you go to Oakmont Park and fetch Anne's mother?"

"Of course."

"Here." Charles unhooked the cross-ties that held Wilfred's head immobile and handed the halter to his brother. "Ride Wilfred. He's the fastest horse in the stable. I must go to Anne." He left the stable at a run.

Walter glanced doubtfully at the horse, which gazed back at him balefully, its ears flat against its head. "Don't worry, lad, I like the idea no better than you." He indulged himself momentarily with the amusing vision of his dignified aunt riding pillion behind him as Wilfred cleared a fence, then handed the halter to a groom and ordered the gig hitched.

Walter followed his aunt into the Cottage and stood in the hall, not sure where to go or what to do. Lady Wentworth handed her hat and cloak to Rose with her usual aplomb, and climbed the stairs as the housekeeper descended.

"You should go up, Mr. Walter," said Mrs. Rudd. "We can't get Mr. Charles out of there, nohow, and he can't stay there while Mrs. Charles is labouring!"

"No," Walter agreed, and followed her up the stairs. He heard a muffled cry from the bedchamber, and stood outside awkwardly while the housekeeper sailed in. Anne, supported by her husband and the midwife, walked from one side of the room to the other, breathing heavily.

"It's time for you to leave, Mr. Charles," said the housekeeper. "Your brother is here to keep you company. We'll take good care of Mrs. Charles, don't you fret."

"I am not leaving." Charles was determined.

"Please go, Charles." Anne's face already showed fatigue and pain. "Please. Go with Walter, and leave me to have this baby in peaAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!" She bent double, clutching at her belly.

"No, Anne, I can't leave you like this!" cried Charles.

Anne looked up at him through hair, soaked with sweat, that hung lank across her forehead. "For God's sake, Charles!" she cried angrily. "I don't want you here! Please, go away!"

Walter seized his brother by the collar. "Come along, Charles," he said firmly.

Charles accepted defeat; he kissed Anne, who smiled and touched his cheek. "Everything will be well, my love," she said, and Walter hauled him out of the room and shut the door behind them.

"Oh, Lord, what have I done?" moaned Charles as Walter pushed him down the stairs.

"The same thing nearly every married man has done. Marriage is for the procreation of children, remember?"

Charles was inconsolable. "If anything happens to Anne, it will be all my fault."

"Don't be such an old woman, Charles. Women give birth every day."

"Yes." Charles did not add the corollary, and women die in childbirth every day, though clearly he was thinking it.

They sat in the drawing-room, playing chess indifferently. Walter won the first two games, a strong indication of Charles' absence of mind. "That's enough," said Charles as Walter captured his queen for the third time. He stood and paced the room restlessly.

"Can I get you a brandy, or a glass of wine?"

"No. I don't want to be drunk, when…" Charles' voice trailed off.

Walter controlled his impatience. "Anne will be well, Charles."

Charles turned and faced him. "I don't want to be drunk, when my child is born. If that is acceptable to you." He started to pace again. "It's just this infernal waiting!" he cried. "I've midwifed half a hundred foals, and it never took so long!"

"For the thousandth time, I remind you that Anne is not a horse. Humans bring forth their progeny in surroundings of relative safety and comfort. In the wild, horses are prey, and have need of a quick delivery. There is not a pack of wolves on a nearby hill set to devour your weakened wife and defenseless child, so I suggest that you calm yourself and accept the waiting period as inevitable."

Charles, however, continued to pace.

After a time, the prospective grandfathers appeared at the Cottage. Walter was grateful for their appearance, because they distracted Charles with their jokes and raillery. Sir Frederick entertained them all with the story of Edward's birth, which took place several weeks before the expected date, unfortunately while they were in the process of sailing to his new station in the Caribbean and trying to outrun a hurricane. "So you see, Charles," he said, pouring a glass of wine, "Anne is, by blood, constitutionally suited to withstand the difficulties of childbirth. Being at home, in her own bed, attended by women instead of a ship's surgeon who had taken more laudanum than he had distributed and an illiterate loblolly boy, I dare say will be to her advantage."

"I remember it took hours for you to appear, Charles," Mr. Musgrove added. "Walter's birth was rather faster, and by the time Eliza came along, it was hardly any time at all. Be of good cheer, son. Are you sure you won't take some of this wine? It is very good."

Just then, the door to the drawing-room opened to admit Lady Wentworth. Charles jumped to his feet, his face all anxiety. "What is it?"

She smiled and said, "You have a daughter, Charles. Would you like to see her?"

Charles wiped a hand across his eyes. "Anne?" he asked.

"Anne is well, and is asking for you."

Charles stared at her a moment; then a dazzling grin broke across his face, and he ran out of the room and up the stairs.

Lady Wentworth turned to the remaining occupants of the drawing room. "Gentlemen, I give you joy of a beautiful niece and granddaughter. Come along and see her." They followed her up the stairs.

When Walter had left the bedchamber chaos reigned; now all was order and calm. Anne was dressed in a clean nightdress and bed-jacket, her hair was combed and carefully plaited, and clean sheets and blankets were placed upon the bed. There were dark rings of fatigue under her eyes, but she was smiling broadly.

Charles went to her immediately and embraced her. "I thank God that you are safe," he said into her hair.

"Ooh, not so tightly," she said. Charles released her, grinning sheepishly, and Anne laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

"Here she is," said the midwife, bringing a blanket-wrapped bundle to the bed. "Mrs. Charles was a good girl, and you'll have a good baby because of it, sir."

"Let me have her," begged Anne, reaching out her hands. "I am greedy; I want to hold her all the time." The midwife placed the baby in her arms, and Anne unwrapped the blanket. "Here is your papa," she crooned, turning the baby to Charles.

He stared down at the baby, his face full of wonder. "She is so tiny! I'd forgotten how small new babies are." He reached out a tentative finger, which the baby grasped strongly. "Look at her fingers! Such tiny, perfect fingers!"

"She shall have lessons on the pianoforte," said Anne in satisfaction. "With those hands, she will be a fine player."

Charles gazed at his daughter for a long moment, and then looked up at Anne and smiled. "She has your eyes."

"And your mouth. She is a lucky little girl; she will have her father's smile."

"Have you thought of a name?" asked Lady Wentworth.

Anne glanced at Charles, who nodded. She smiled at her mother, who stood next to Mrs. Musgrove. "She's to be called Marianne, after her grandmothers."

Lady Wentworth took her sister's hand. "We have a namesake, Mary," she said, and the two women smiled at one another.

"Walter?" asked Anne, and he knew what she wanted. Mrs. Rudd stood ready with a small bowl of warm water. It was usual in the country to baptize children at home within a day of their birth, and he was ready for her request.

"Our Father, who art in heaven," he began, and a quiet murmur of voices continued the prayer as Walter took the baby from Anne, carefully supporting the infant's head within his elbow, and took his first good look at the new addition. Like most newborns, her face was red and rather wrinkled and squashed-looking. She had a shock of dark hair that stuck straight up, and eyes so dark they looked black, which moved around aimlessly without seeming to understand what they looked upon. Despite these shortcomings, she was a thing of beauty; there were hints of both her parents in her features, and she had long, elegant, utterly perfect fingers that would someday fly over the keyboard of a pianoforte. She was a living, breathing little miracle, and judging by the besotted look on Charles' face, she already had her first admirer.

When the prayer was finished and the voices died away, Walter scooped up a little water with his hand and trickled it over the child's head. She flinched, her hands waving indignantly; this, too, was all very much in the common way. "Marianne, I baptize thee in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

"Amen," everyone chorused.

Walter smiled down at his niece, and wiped the water away gently. "Welcome to the family, love," he said softly, and kissed her on the forehead before he handed her back to her mother. "She's beautiful," he said to Anne. "Fortunately, she takes after you." He shook Charles' hand. "My congratulations, brother."

The grandparents approached to see the baby. "She's a very pretty baby, Anne," said Mrs. Musgrove, peering down at the blanket-wrapped bundle. "Do not worry, next time I dare say you will have a boy."

Anne looked down, biting her lip, and Mr. Musgrove said hastily, "Come, Mary, we should leave them alone now. The baby will want to sleep soon."

Walter exchanged a grin with his brother, and everyone trooped out of the room, leaving the new family alone together for the first time.

Walter saw everyone off and began to walk back to the parsonage, but before he was halfway there, he veered away and headed for the stables. He did not want to go home; did not want to be alone. He wanted to be happy over the addition to his family, wanted to go where there was light and laughter, and where there would be someone who shared his joy. He turned the horse's head toward Kellynch.

He was admitted to the Blue Saloon as a matter of course. The Gilbrides were all there; Eileen rose as he entered, reading in his face that something had happened. "What is it? Is it Anne?"

Walter smiled. "Anne is safely delivered of a daughter, called Marianne. I thought you would like to know."

"Oh, I am so happy to hear it!" She approached him and shook his hand heartily. "Please accept my congratulations, Mr. Musgrove! What delightful news! Have you had supper?"

"I have not even dined," he admitted. "I was with Charles all afternoon."

"Then you must sup with us," cried Sir Bernard, shaking his hand. "I warn you, sir, we will not take no for an answer. Sure, and there is some cold meat in the larder for you!" He rang the bell and ordered supper to be brought in directly. "Will you take a glass of whiskey with me to toast the newborn?"

"No!" cried Walter and Eileen at the same time; they exchanged a glance and burst into laughter.

June burst upon Uppercross in a blaze of beauty. The roses in Walter's garden, fertilized according to Eileen Gilbride's instructions and freed from the burden of deadwood that had choked them for so many years, flowered magnificently. The bulbs and seedlings bloomed and flourished; birds nested among the branches and fluttered about, tending to their young; bees hovered lazily, heavy with their burden of pollen, ensuring that the flowering plants would propagate. The garden was a delightful oasis, and the perfect place to sit and contemplate.

Michael Gilbride also found it the perfect place to study; on fine afternoons, he was never happier--or more attentive to his lessons--than when he was in the garden. Walter saw no harm in it, and the boy throve under the influence of fresh air and sunshine. One afternoon they were so deeply involved in Euclid that they lost track of time, until Eileen came into the garden, directed thither by the housekeeper.

She stood just inside the big wooden door from the sweep, staring about her, her expression one of pure delight. Walter rose, smiling, and went to meet her. "Is it how you imagined it, back in the spring?" he asked her.

She smiled at him. "It is more than I imagined," she said. "Much more."

They walked about, inspecting the blooming shrubs and the roses that climbed over the high stone walls. Eileen looked closely at the roses. "They bloomed a little early, I think. You should remove some of these blown blossoms; the plant will bloom better for it. I dare say Mrs. Wilson will have uses for the rose hips, so certainly you should not cut them all."

"Rose hips?" Walter was at a loss.

Eileen laughed at him. "Rose hips are the fruit of the rosebush. If you leave some blossoms to wither, the fruit will develop here toward autumn." She pointed to the base of the blossom. "The fruit contains seeds, some of which you will want to reserve. I brew tea from rose hips; my father finds it is excellent for the digestion. It also seems to ward off colds. This early in the growing season, however, you still should remove the blown blossoms. Have you shears? I will show you which ones."

Mrs. Wilson had left shears, a basket, and heavy work gloves outside, and Eileen immediately appropriated them. She called her brother over; "Someone must teach you botany," she said with an arch glance at Walter, who just shook his head and smiled. She showed them how to identify the blossoms that had bloomed fully, and were beginning to drop their petals, and how to cut them off just beyond the base.

"This way," she explained, removing a wilted bloom, "the plant may direct its energies toward producing new blooms, rather than a seed pod, and you will have roses for a longer growing period." She told Walter of the hybrid rose varieties she had bred in the hothouse at Kellynch. "I shall reserve the seeds, and allow them to sprout in the hothouse over the winter, and set out the plants next spring. If they take, I shall give you a plant or two. There!" she said, cutting off the last dying bloom. "That will do for now." She turned toward Walter, and exclaimed in surprise. He held out a single perfect white tea rose.

"Why did you cut this one?" she asked. "It is just opening; it would bloom for another week, at least!"

"It is for you; for all you have done for me, and for this garden. And an advance payment for the hybrid rosebushes, as well."

"I thank you," she said, and her hand lingered on his as she took the flower; then she blushed, and looked away. Walter's eyes remained steadily upon her. Michael stared at them for a long moment; and then his face lit in a sudden, brilliant, grin.

The next morning, Walter stared out the library window toward the sweep, drumming his fingers impatiently. He was startled by a knock on the door, and even more startled when Michael entered with a decided spring in his step.

"When did you arrive?" asked Walter. "I did not hear the gig."

"I rode over," said Michael, visibly pleased with himself. "Eileen said the weather was so fine, I could take myself to lessons. Although she would make the groom ride with me," he added, his brow darkening. "I rode straight to the stable, and left the horse there, and walked over. Did I do right?" he added.

"Of course. You did exactly right." With an effort, Walter controlled his disappointment. "Right, then, did you read the assignment I gave you?"

As the end of her month of confinement approached, Anne grew increasingly restless. Charles brought her armfuls of flowers, but she still pined for her garden. The only consolation was having her daughter in her arms, but month-old infants sleep more than they are awake, and Anne's friends and family contrived to fill the empty hours of waiting. Walter was at the Cottage daily, and always found himself among a convivial group that might include anyone from his aunts to his mother to his cousins, and most often, Eileen. He always sat by her; always talked to her; and they were the subject of gossip from Winthrop to Crewkherne that declared Kellynch would see a wedding before Michaelmas. That this intelligence was in direct opposition of the common wisdom of only a few months before, which stated the wedding would be held at Kellynch Lodge rather than the great house, was not remembered by anyone. Gwendolyn Clay had gone to town for the remainder of the season, and it was said that she would be spending the summer in Brighton. She had been gone a fortnight before Walter realized he hadn't spared her a thought.

A month after Marianne was born, Walter performed the "churching" ceremony for Anne, her first public appearance since the birth, and the confirmation of Marianne's baptism was to take place the following week. Anne and Charles chose Eileen Gilbride and Elizabeth Leigh as Marianne's godmothers, and Edward Wentworth as her godfather. The ceremony would be a rather subdued affair; the infant had already been baptized at home, and her godfather's ship was somewhere between Bermuda and Nova Scotia and it was not known if he was yet aware of his niece's existence. However, Elizabeth insisted on interrupting her yearly visit to London to attend the ceremony and see her new niece.

The Leighs arrived in Uppercross in state; a procession of three carriages paraded grandly up the road to the Great House, the labourers in the field stopping their work to stare in astonishment at such an unusual sight. The first carriage bore Mr. Leigh's superior valet, Mrs. Leigh's even more superior dresser, and some other servants that could not be done without; the second carried the two little boys and their nurse; and the final equipage, the Leigh's town-chaise, brought Elizabeth back to her childhood home.

They were admitted to the parlour, where the family waited to greet her. She ran into the room, laughing and smiling, as vivacious and pretty as ever. She went to her father, and then her mother, to be embraced and kissed. Mrs. Musgrove stepped back, looked her daughter over critically, and said, "Eliza, are you breeding again?"

"Good God, Mamma!" she cried.

"Well, are you?" asked her mother, not at all abashed.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, but--in the future, I will thank you to remember that I would prefer to announce it in my own time, and certainly not in such a vulgar fashion!"

"No need to be missish with your own mother, young lady." She accepted a kiss on the cheek from her son-in-law, who seemed more amused than anything else at the exchange. "Hello, James dear, I hope you had a pleasant journey."

Elizabeth went to Anne and caught her in a long and warm embrace. "You look very well, dearest! Now, I want to see my niece as soon as possible. I am grown quite tired of exclusively male company," she added, giving her husband an arch glance over her shoulder.

"Tired of male company? You?" cried Charles, kissing his sister. "I never thought I should see this day."

Just then, the eldest boy, James, ran into the room, tripped and fell hard onto the wooden floor, and immediately began to wail. The harried-looking nurse came in carrying little George, who was already crying. "They're tired after the long journey, ma'am," she said apologetically to Elizabeth.

"Now, now, Jemmy," Mrs. Musgrove cried over the din, "be a good boy and Grandmamma will give you some cake. Won't that be nice?"

"No cake, Mamma," said Elizabeth firmly. "They should be put to bed directly."

"Come along, master Jemmy," said his father, scooping him up. "Up to the nursery with you!" He smiled at his wife, who gave him a look of pure gratitude and blew him a kiss, and then he carried the now-laughing boy upstairs, followed by the nurse with George.

"Ah," said Mrs. Musgrove as the room once again grew quiet. "I am sure that I love my grandsons very much, but I am no longer accustomed to the noise of children. I fear I shall be on the sopha the rest of the afternoon with the headache."

Elizabeth finally was able to embrace Walter. "I've missed you, dearest," she said in his ear. "Why do you not write to me? I must depend upon Anne for my news of you."

"I wonder at the sort of news you have procured in that way."

"I hear nothing but good things about you. Which reminds me," she added, turning to Anne and Charles, "are James and I to dine at the Cottage tonight? Do Mamma and Papa come as well?"

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Musgrove, headache forgotten at the prospect of a dinner party. "We are all to go, Eliza: your papa and I, and Walter, and the Gilbrides. Miss Gilbride is Marianne's second godmother."

"I know it," she responded. "So I am to meet the mysterious Miss Gilbride at last! I have heard so much about her from Anne. I shall look forward to it." She turned a speculative smile on Walter.

"What are you smiling at?" he said, though he could not help smiling back.

Elizabeth said nothing, but shook her head and stroked his cheek affectionately.

The dinner party at the Cottage was a pleasant one, and when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Walter was surprised to see his sister and Eileen chatting cozily together. He joined them, and Eileen immediately fell silent, and a moment later murmured an excuse and went to sit with Anne on the other side of the room.

"Was it something I said?" Walter asked Elizabeth.

"No, dearest. If you will take my advice," she continued in a low voice only audible to her brother, "you will give her a little time."

"A little time?" he repeated.

"Yes. Miss Gilbride needs a little time to become accustomed to the idea of being in love with you."

It was Walter's turn to exclaim at a female relative's outspokenness. "I'll have none of your matchmaking," he warned her. "You will not browbeat that poor girl to serve your outrageous schemes."

"I assure you, no browbeating will be required. She has been leading me to talk about you all evening. You need not worry," she added, "I was much more complimentary than you deserved."

"I thank you," he said with high irony.

Elizabeth ignored his sarcasm. "I am quite pleased with your choice, dearest. She is all I ever hoped for you."

"You seem very sure that I have made a choice."

"Oh, you have," she said calmly. "I know you, Walter. You would never pay so much attention to a young lady like Miss Gilbride if you were not serious. Your former, er--conquests, let us call them--were not the sort of woman a gentleman marries."

No stab of pain at the remembrance of Gwendolyn and her betrayal--could he have finally grown past it? "I wonder that you speak of gentlewomen and yet refer to my conquests in your brother's drawing room."

"I am a married woman," she said, "and I was never a fool. You are a very handsome man, you know--" Walter rolled his eyes and exclaimed-- "No need to be coy with your own sister. You are very handsome, and you are very easy to love when you are not being tiresome. Never before have you had to work at gaining a woman's regard. It will be good for you, and will make you appreciate her all the more."

Walter could not help being amused by such an air of superior knowledge from his little sister. "I thank you for your approval, love, but I still think you are a trifle beforehand."

She gazed up at him, her blue eyes sweet and earnest. "Promise me you will at least consider making a match with Miss Gilbride."

"I will consider it," he said solemnly.

Elizabeth laughed and clapped her hands. "Then I shall not worry about you any more!" She turned to her sister-in-law. "Anne, are we old married ladies to show off our neglected musical skills tonight?"

Walter took his sister's advice, and allowed Eileen some time and distance to know her mind. It was the easiest course of action, as he did not yet know his own.

Elizabeth's words were often with him: "Never before have you had to work at gaining a woman's regard." He had to admit that she was correct. Since he was a very young man, not much older than Michael Gilbride, women had pursued him--older women at first, sometimes married women, sometimes unmarried but not inexperienced women, even the occasional maidservant. He quickly learned to recognize the certain smile, the light in the eye, the carefully-orchestrated brush of skirts against his legs, the proximity that permitted a glimpse of perfumed decolletage: all the signals that a woman used to indicate her interest. He had taken what was offered him, taken it gracefully and gratefully and nearly always leaving the women feeling they had got the better share of the arrangement. He had never had his heart broken, had never been inclined to feel anything more complicated than physical desire, until he met Gwendolyn. She had given him a taste for more; for a meeting of the minds and hearts instead of a simple, selfish indulgence of pleasure.

Eileen Gilbride was a puzzle. Sometimes he read warm regard in her eyes, a regard that made his spine tingle with anticipation, the same look he had received from the parade of forgotten women; and then the next moment, she would repulse him, turn away, act coldly. If Eileen were an ordinary young woman, a girl like Charlotte Smedley, wanting nothing more than the consequence that marriage would bestow, he would have attributed it to coquettishness, but Eileen was incapable of such dissimulation. She wore her heart on her sleeve, and yet he received no firm message from her. The unwritten but understood rules of society did not permit plain speaking on such a subject, and try as he might, Walter could not take a likeness of Eileen's heart, or determine his place in it.

Elizabeth and James and the boys went to Ashleigh at the end of June, and with them went the round of social activity Mrs. Musgrove had promoted for their visit. Walter rarely saw Eileen; the days for Michael's tutoring were infuriatingly fine, and he rode over with only a groom for company. Walter spent a great deal of his spare time in his garden, half-hoping that Eileen might drive up in her gig and join him. He missed seeing her; he missed their conversations, missed her intelligence, her quick wit, the quirk of her lips when he said something that amused her. He missed the flash in her dark-blue eyes when she was angry or surprised. He missed the porcelain translucency of her skin, the way her hair shone in firelight, fire itself within the depths of it, a fire that could warm a man, and her eyes like a cool blue sea--

Damn, he thought. Eliza's right. I care for Eileen; and she's not the sort of girl one cares for without marrying her. He leaned back on the garden bench, crossed his arms over his chest, and sighed. "It is better to marry than to burn," he murmured to himself, and wondered what Gwendolyn would have said had she heard him quote St. Paul.

The morning had dawned cloudy and cool for July, and threatened rain; Eileen drove Michael to the parsonage for his lessons, but she was already down the sweep and turning into the road before Walter could get outside. He watched after her for a moment, then silently led his pupil into the library.

Within a few hours, the clouds were gone, and the sun shone brightly. Michael's eyes strayed to window at increasingly frequent intervals.

"Do you think we could go into the garden?" he finally asked.

"I believe it will be too damp."

"It never rained."

Walter leaned back and smiled at his pupil. "You are a very determined young man."

Michael grinned. "With my sister, one must be determined!"

"I shall remember that."

Mrs. Wilson was delighted to make up sandwiches for them, and soon they were carrying a tray and blanket into the garden. They spread the blanket under a tree and laid out their feast; not only sandwiches, but a bowl of freshly-picked strawberries and a pitcher of heavy cream. They had just tucked in when Eileen came into the garden.

"Michael! You will spoil your dinner."

"I doubt that," said Walter, watching Michael wolfing down a sandwich.

"You are probably right," she agreed cheerfully. Walter was pleased to see no evidence of her recent coolness; she seemed in high spirits as she moved around the garden, commenting upon the growth of various plantations. The gentlemen lolled upon the blanket, dragging the fat, sweet strawberries through a saucer of cream and popping them into their mouths. The sun was intense, and the heat hung in a peaceful blanket over the quiet garden. Eileen's gentle motions reminded Walter of a butterfly, lighting first here and then there.

He reached for a strawberry and saw that Michael had consumed nearly all of them. "Do you inhale them?" he asked incredulously. "Find Mrs. Wilson and see if she has any more. If there are none picked, tell her to show you the plants in the kitchen garden, and you may pick them yourself."

Michael went into the house, and Walter called to Eileen, "Miss Gilbride, if you want any of these strawberries, best get them now before your brother returns."

She hesitated; under the heavy veil that hung from the edge of her wide-brimmed hat, it was difficult to see if her face had taken on the wary expression he had seen so often of late. He prepared himself for disappointment, but she wound her way around the path and dropped to her knees upon the blanket. "The shade is delightful," she said as she unwound the veil and removed her hat. There was a light sheen of perspiration across her nose and cheeks, and a flush to her skin; whether from the heat, or exertion, or something else, he could not tell. "I do not realize the intensity of the sun until I leave it." She struggled with her gloves; she seemed to have difficulty removing them.

Walter sat up, took one of the strawberries, and dipped it into the heavy cream. "Here," he said, profferring it near her mouth. He expected her to take the entire berry in her mouth, but she bit down upon it; juice and cream ran down her mouth, and she gasped and laughed, lifting her hands to her mouth, but seemed afraid of soiling her gloves. Walter ran his thumb across her chin, wiping away the juice. She laughed again, and grasped his wrist; their eyes met; and then, because it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do at that moment, Walter leaned closer and kissed her.

He instantly regretted it. He expected her to exclaim, to move away, perhaps to slap him; all these thoughts passed through his mind in a second, and none of them occurred. Their faces were close together, and Eileen gazed into his eyes, as if measuring him. Walter reached up and touched her chin; he opened his mouth to say her name; and then she closed her eyes, and they swayed together into another kiss.

Walter slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Her hands, free now of the gloves, reached up to stroke his cheek and the nape of his neck. Her waist fit perfectly in the curve of his arm. Walter was unable to imagine a time when he had not kissed her, when he had not known her. They were together, where they belonged. She tasted of strawberries.

Then Eileen broke away from him, snatching up her hat and gloves and running to the door of the garden.

"Wait," called Walter, leaping to his feet and following her. "Wait--Eileen, please--"

She stopped at the door of the garden, arrested by his use of her Christian name. She turned to him, but would not meet his eyes. "Please, Mr. Musgrove," she said in a low, urgent voice. "We lost our heads, and we made a mistake. I shall never mention this incident again, and I pray you will not. I think it is best forgotten."

He seized her by the wrists. "Forgotten? I cannot forget--Eileen, you must know how I feel about you!"

She closed her eyes. "Please," she said, her voice a soft cry. "Please do not speak to me so--it was a moment's weakness."

"Eileen--"

"Mr. Musgrove--it cannot be. Please let me go."

He released her, and she went through the garden door just as Michael approached, holding a bowl of strawberries. "Fetch your things, Michael. We are leaving."

"Leaving?" He stood stupidly in the path, staring at her.

"Go on," said Walter, taking the bowl from him. "Get your books."

Michael gave him a reproachful look, and quickly fetched his books. He climbed up into his sister's gig, and as it drove away, Walter heard a snatch of conversation: "--ruined everything!" Michael was saying fiercely; and then the gig turned onto the roadway, and they were gone.

Walter stood by the garden door for a few moments, his eyes closed, remembering. He could still taste the strawberries.

Walter consumed Mrs. Wilson's excellent dinner methodically, without tasting it. He did not linger over a glass of port, as was his custom. He went into his library and tried to read a book, but soon abandoned it; he paced back and forth in front of the fireplace restlessly.

He knew that he wanted to marry Eileen Gilbride; he knew that he loved her. When they kissed, the emotion that he had buried so deeply inside himself had finally made itself known. His heart, deadened and scarred after Gwendolyn's betrayal, had been brought back to life; Eileen had done it, with the same sure touch that had turned his barren garden into a lush, green, perfumed landscape. There was no more ambivalence on his side; but her behaviour, first returning his kiss and then running away--what was he to think of that?

And why wouldn't she run away? he asked himself, running a hand desperately through his hair. He was certain that some gossiping fool had told her of him and Gwendolyn. Perhaps Eileen thought that he was taking a liberty, and did not realize that his intentions toward her were entirely honourable.

The small library became oppressive, and his steps turned out of it, out of the house, down the road a quarter-mile to the Cottage.

He pulled the bell, and after a moment Charles opened it, a look of astonishment on his face. "Walter? What is it?"

Walter realized that it must be very late. "Oh, good God--what is the time?"

"It is nearly ten o'clock."

"Forgive me, Charles, I--" he started to turn away, but his brother pulled him into the house.

"You are here now," he said, leading him into his own small library. "I can see that something is troubling you. What is it?"

Walter hesitated, then turned to his brother and blurted out, "How did you know that Anne wanted to marry you?"

Charles blinked in surprise, but said, "I did not know. I asked her without meaning to. I saw her with another man, and was horribly jealous, and I stuttered a pathetic proposal. Fortunately, it turned out that Anne returned my affection." He looked at his brother consideringly. "Does this have something to do with Eileen Gilbride?"

Walter looked his surprise. "Well--yes. How did you know?"

"You are not exactly circumspect, you know. Your admiration has been quite plain for some weeks now."

"Mine has? What of hers?"

"I do not understand."

"I have tried to tell her how I feel about her--I tried today. I kissed her in the garden. She liked it, Charles, I would swear to it--and then she ran out. I started to tell her--that I care for her--and she ran away, told me it was best forgotten. Oh, good Lord, I sound like a ninny." He collapsed into an armchair.

Charles was smiling. "No, you sound like a man in love."

"I am," said Walter fervently. "I am. But I cannot tell if she feels the same. What the devil do I do now? I cannot imagine my life without her, Charles. Sometimes she looks at me, and I think she can return my affection, and sometimes she looks at me as though she loathes me."

"I am sure she does not loathe you."

"You know, Eliza told me that Eileen was different--that I always could have any woman I wanted, and she was right. I don't know what to do when I have to pursue. I don't know if I should pursue."

"Walter," said Charles, "if you will take some advice from your big brother: pursue."

Walter looked at him sharply. "Do you know something?"

"I do not. Anne might perhaps, but she has not confided in me. However, when I was ambivalent about asking Anne, Father gave me some excellent advice: she is not going to ask you." Charles clapped him on the shoulder. "Onward into the breach, dear brother. Take my word for it: the spoils are worth the battle."

Walter was nodding. "Very well. Very well, Charles. I will ask her tonight--" he looked at the clock over the fireplace, and amended, "--tomorrow. I will ask her tomorrow."

"Good man," said Charles. "You might want to mention it to Mamma as well--she was rather hurt that I did not tell her before I proposed to Anne. I tried to explain about the unexpected nature of it, but she still casts it up to me from time to time. Go now--they will still be awake."

Walter let himself into the Great House--fortunately the door had not yet been locked for the night--and went into the parlour. His father dozed in his chair, a shawl cast across his knees; his mother sat at the small desk, writing a letter.

"Mamma?" he asked softly, not wishing to wake his father.

Mrs. Musgrove looked around sharply and let out a little shriek that immediately wakened her husband.

"Mary?" he said groggily, sitting up. "What is it? Where's my gun?" He looked around blearily, and then noticed Walter. "Oh, hello, son. A trifle late for paying calls, what?"

"I beg your pardon," he said, smiling at them. "I have some news that would not wait."

Mrs. Musgrove still stared at him wildly, her hand over her heart. "Walter, you startled me so--my heart is beating ever so wildly!" She waved at the tea service. "Fetch me a cup, there's a good boy, and then tell me your news."

He poured milk into the cup, then tea, and dropped in a lump of sugar, and carried the cup to his mother. "Here you are, love." His affection for his parents suddenly overflowed his heart, and he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

She looked up at him suspiciously, not touching the tea. "What have you done, Walter?"

"I've fallen in love, Mamma."

She relaxed visibly. "Oh, is that all? I suppose it is that Miss Gilbride?"

"Yes, Mamma. I hope you will welcome her as your daughter--that is, if she agrees to marry me."

Mrs. Musgrove was all indignance. "And why wouldn't she? You are the grandson of Sir Walter Elliot--and who is she, pray? Her father is a knight, it is true, but you come from an old English family. Miss Eileen Gilbride should be grateful to receive such an offer." She snorted into her teacup.

"I hope she is."

His mother continued to speak. "But if you are decided on her, I have something for you. Wait here." She put down her cup, rose, and went out of the room, trailing various shawls behind her.

Walter turned to his father, who was smiling at him fondly. "Well, Father? What say you?"

"I am pleased with your choice, Walter. Miss Gilbride is a fine woman, and will make you a good wife, I think." He added with an arched eyebrow, "Dare say she will look after your garden pretty well."

Walter laughed. "I dare say she shall. Thank you, sir."

Mrs. Musgrove came back into the parlour, carrying a flat leather-covered box. "Here," she said, handing it to Walter. "This is for Miss Gilbride."

Walter opened the box, which contained a set of sapphire and diamond jewelry. He looked up at his mother in surprise. "Mamma, these are beautiful."

"They were my mother's," she said thoughtfully. "Sapphires do not really suit me, but they will look well on Miss Gilbride, I think. You will give her the ring when you become engaged, and then the rest of the set for a wedding gift. Eliza will have most of my jewelry, and Anne will get my sister's, but you give that to your wife."

Walter closed the box and embraced his mother. "Thank you, love," he said into her ear.

Mrs. Musgrove patted him on the arm, her eyes suspiciously misty. "It is high time you married, Walter. I am happy for you."

The old clock chimed, and Walter rose. "Thank you. Thank you both." His parents' matter-of-fact acceptance of Eileen as a prospective daughter made him think that perhaps Eileen would not find his proposal entirely unexpected, or unwelcome, and he walked back to the parsonage with a light heart.

It seemed as though he had just closed his eyes when he was awakened by the sound of the door bell.

Walter immediately rose and reached for his dressing-gown. Such midnight visits were not an unknown circumstance in a clergyman's household. Parishioners fell sick and needed their priest at all hours; however, he had no intelligence of anyone in the parish with a dangerous illness. He left his bedchamber and went to the top of the stairs.

His manservant, the trailing ends of his nightshirt hastily and imperfectly tucked into his trousers, unbolted the door and admitted the messenger. Walter's heart sank within him when he recognized Eileen's groom. His knees buckled, and he reached out unsteadily to grip the banister. Oh dear God, no, he thought weakly. Please, no. Not now.

He found his voice, and called down the stairs, "Who is it?" He managed to sound relatively normal.

The groom looked up the stairs. "It's Sir Bernard, Mr. Musgrove. He's had a bad spell, sir, and he's asking for you."

"Very well. Let me get dressed."

"I'll wait, sir; Miss Eileen had me bring the gig."

Trust Eileen to see to all the details, no matter what the circumstances, thought Walter with wry affection as he returned to his bedchamber. He dressed quickly, pulled on his boots, and ran down the stairs. He was about to leave when he noticed his housekeeper standing in the shadowy entrance to the passage that led to her room by the kitchen.

"I'll pray for them, sir," she said. "I'll pray for all of them."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brumby." Walter followed the groom out to the gig.

Kellynch had that terrible atmosphere Walter always noticed in a house of sickness: voices artificially hushed, hasty footsteps gently placed, the ineffectual light of a few candles casting long, distorted shadows. His profession had accustomed him to such a mood, but tonight Kellynch seemed haunted; whether by the ghosts of his long-dead ancestors, or the fading spirit of Sir Bernard, or by the shade of his own hopes was impossible to tell. The housekeeper took his hat and led him up to Sir Bernard's bedchamber.

Eileen was there, her father's hand wrapped within her own. Mr. Maxwell, the local apothecary, stood nearby, dripping something into a glass of water and stirring it. Eileen rose as Walter approached, whispering, "Dad, here's Mr. Musgrove." When she turned toward Walter, the strain in her expression, her eyes enormous in her pale face, were like a knife in his chest. In front of the apothecary, he could only take her hand and press it as they exchanged silent, speaking glances before she passed from the room.

The apothecary stopped to tell Walter in a low voice, "There is no immediate danger, but do not allow him to become overly excited." Walter nodded, and Maxwell left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Walter took the chair that Eileen had vacated.

Sir Bernard's face was as pale as the sheet upon which he lay. His hair seemed whiter than Walter remembered. His breathing was laboured. His eyes, however, still had all their customary sharpness; the "spell," as the groom had called it, had weakened his body, but it had not impaired his mind. "Mr. Musgrove," he said. He expelled his words convulsively, spitting them in batches with each laboured breath. "I might not--see--the morning--and there--is much--I would--say--to you."

"The apothecary seems to disagree with your diagnosis, sir," Walter replied with a smile.

"The apothecary," Sir Bernard said, "is not Irish." He began to laugh, which brought on a coughing fit that alarmed Walter somewhat until the older man regained his breath. He spoke again, his words more disjointed than ever as he fought for air. "What are--your intentions--toward--my daughter?"

Walter had expected anything but that question; startled into frankness, he responded, "I mean to marry her, if she'll have me."

Sir Bernard closed his eyes and nodded. After a moment he looked up at Walter. "That is well. You look after her."

"I will, sir."

"And Michael?"

"Of course. Michael is already like a brother to me. I'll see him through Cambridge if you cannot."

The older man smiled. "I thought so. I had to ask. I thank you."

Walter nodded, unable to think of a proper response.

"You're the man for my Eibhlín. I knew it the first time I saw you together. Look after my girl." He closed his eyes again for a moment. "And Michael. He'll take my passing hard."

"There's no need for such talk, sir. Would you like me to pray with you?"

Sir Bernard waved a hand dismissively. "An old sinner like me is past prayers."

"With respect, sir, I do not believe that."

He shook his head, but said nothing; the only sound was his struggle for breath.

"I'll fetch Mr. Maxwell then," said Walter. Sir Bernard nodded weakly.

Walter stepped out of the bedchamber and held the door for the apothecary. Eileen tried to follow Maxwell into the room, but Walter gently prevented her. "Let Mr. Maxwell tend to him," he said softly.

She closed her eyes, and a single tear squeezed out and ran down her cheek. Walter reached up with his thumb to brush it away; he then opened his arms, and she sank against his chest. He cradled her against him, stroking her back in a gentle, soothing rhythm; she did not weep, but allowed him to hold her. Her hair tickled his nose, but he would not have moved for the world.

She allowed herself a long moment of indulgence; then she placed her hands against his chest and resolutely pushed away, and was again brisk and businesslike. She would not look at him. "I have not yet thanked you for coming out here in the middle of the night," she said.

"Pray do not mention it," he said. "I hope that you know that I am always at your family's service."

"Have you seen Michael?" she asked him. "My father would not allow him in the bedchamber, and he went off to sulk."

"No, I have not seen him."

"He is probably in the library. Will you go and talk to him?"

"Of course. Send a servant to fetch me if you need me."

"I will." She took his hand and pressed it. "Thank you again, Mr. Musgrove."

Walter made his way to the library and, as Eileen had predicted, found Michael within, sprawled in a chair, his expression rebellious. He looked around as Walter entered, and rose hastily. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you were Eileen."

"I see that your manners toward your sister have not improved in any event. Why are you not upstairs?"

"No point, is there? Dad won't let me be in the room with him." He turned away, his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his thin shoulders rounded, as though he built a wall surrounding him, protecting him against an assault from without. "He did the same thing when my mother was sick. ‘Keep the boy away. Don't let him see.' I could hear her asking for me, and he wouldn't let me see her. Not till she lay dead in her coffin." Michael's face was twisted and pinched. "I never had a chance to say goodbye. Everyone knew she was dying and I never had a chance to say goodbye. It'll be the same with my dad, because he's a stubborn old man who still thinks I'm five years old!"

Surprise mingled with compassion in Walter's heart. Michael's light-hearted demeanour had never before revealed such depths of emotion. His mother's death had never seemed to weigh upon him much, but it was clear that somewhere deep within him was a wound that had never completely healed. "I will try to persuade your father to see you," he said. "The apothecary is of the opinion that he is not in immediate danger."

Michael looked around at this. "Truly?"

"I would not lie to you about such a matter, Michael. You are no longer a boy, and you should not be treated as one."

"Tell my dad that!"

"I will, if you will take care to act like an adult to deserve it. Now come upstairs and see to your sister. She needs you nearby, and your sulking does not help her."

Michael nodded and followed Walter upstairs. Eileen was pacing the passage, and Michael went to her immediately and embraced her. "Sorry," he mumbled into her hair. "I didn't mean to worry you, Eileen."

Walter smiled and scratched at the door to Sir Bernard's bedchamber. The apothecary's voice came from within: "Enter."

Sir Bernard's breathing was less laboured, but he was still pale and weak. Walter went to his side and said, "Michael would like to see you, sir."

"No, no," said the older man weakly. "The boy should not see me like this."

"With all due respect, sir, there are some things that no one can protect him from. Do not shut him out now. He needs to see you, and I dare say you need to see him."

Sir Bernard closed his eyes for a long moment; Walter wondered if he'd drifted off to sleep. Then the older man said, "Very well. Let him in."

Walter went to the door and beckoned Michael in. The young man crept over to his father's bed, and said, "How are you, Dad?"

Several forceful expulsions of breath indicated that Sir Bernard had found his son's artless question amusing. "Well enough, son, well enough."

Michael knelt by the bed. "Please don't send me away again, sir." His head dropped down and came to rest upon his father's shoulder.

Sir Bernard weakly caressed his son's hair. "No, lad."

Eileen turned to Walter and said softly, "And now I have something else to thank you for."

"As I said, I am at your family's service, Miss Gilbride--and yours."

Her hand brushed his, and he grasped it, lacing his fingers through hers. She did not pull away.

At first, there was hope for Sir Bernard's recovery. He had a brief rally a week or so after his first attack, but as the long summer days passed in their turn, hope faded. He became weaker and paler, a mere shell of the man whose laugh had rung through the halls and whose personality could barely be contained within the big house. By the end of August he found it nearly impossible to talk, having to use much of his energy to breathe, but liked to have his family around him. He stopped taking nourishment, a circumstance that made them all understand that the end was near, for never had a man enjoyed his victuals like Sir Bernard Gilbride.

Walter spent hours reading to Sir Bernard, which gave Eileen some reprieve from her constant attendance upon her father. Sometimes Sir Bernard would motion him to stop reading, and they would converse briefly; usually a rather one-sided affair, as the older man's breathing difficulties did not permit much conversation.

One afternoon he said to Walter, "Eibhlín--she gives--difficulty?"

Walter understood his meaning. "Under the circumstances, sir, I have not pressed my suit." Truth be told, they were all so worn down with care and concern that there had been no thought to spare for romance. Eileen always seemed grateful for his presence, and that was enough.

"Stubborn," the old man muttered. "Redheaded--headstrong--stubborn. Mother--same." He reached out and seized Walter's hand. "You--try. You--try."

"I have not given up, sir," said Walter with a smile.

Sir Bernard gave a breathless hoot of laughter and whispered, "Good. Good. Do--not. Worth it--son. Believe--me." He sank back on his pillow, pale and exhausted.

One bright, warm morning in August, a note arrived at the parsonage from Eileen saying that her father had passed away in the night. The coolly polite note prepared him somewhat for his reception. Unlike the night her father had fallen ill, Eileen did not allow Walter to see her innermost emotions. She shook his hand, and thanked him for coming, as civilly as she might have welcomed him on any ordinary day.

He suppressed a flush of anger, the first emotion raised by Eileen's repulsion. It was hardly a Christian reaction at such a time. He revised his plan of spending the morning at Kellynch to paying a short condolence call and making what funeral arrangements could be made; but this plan, infinitely more admirable than its predecessor, fell in its turn. Michael's grief was complete and devastating.

Walter had never known such close loss; his parents were alive and well, as were his many aunts and uncles. His Musgrove grandparents had gone to their eternal rewards after long lives well-lived, and his Elliot grandfather had never had much time for him, so his death had hardly registered on a seven-year-old boy. He was shocked by the vehemence of Michael's anger, and Walter felt wholly unable to offer counsel or comfort.

"It's not fair," Michael raged. "First my mum, and now my dad. Why me? Why are my parents taken away when I see so many other people live to be old? Why couldn't one of my parents live?"

"We are not meant to know that," Walter said, knowing that however true his words might be, they would bring scant comfort. "You'll see your parents again one day--"

"I don't care about that. I don't care, I tell you! I want them here now, with me!" He stopped and covered his face with his hands. "I want my dad here." Wrenching sobs shook his body.

Walter reached out, unsure what to do; but Eileen, whom he had not known was in the room, moved around him to embrace Michael.

"It's just us now, little brother," she said, so softly Walter could barely hear her. "We shall look after each other, shan't we?"

He would not--he could not intrude. Walter silently departed and left them to grieve their dead.

Autumn dropped her golden web over the village. The parsonage garden put off its youthful green and took on the warm yellow colours, a last desperate grasp at gaiety before the long deep slumber of winter.

Michael looked up from the slate where he was working a problem in spherical trigonometry, his eager mind having advanced greatly beyond the Euclidean formulae that had given him such trouble in past times. "Do you think I'll be ready to sit the examinations for Cambridge, sir?"

"I believe so. Are you certain that is the course you wish to take? You are a very wealthy young man; you'll have no need to earn your living."

"I believe I shall like being a scholar," said Michael. "Besides, that's what my Dad wanted."

Walter smiled. In the weeks since his father's death, Michael had taken on a becoming new maturity; a gravity, a deeper knowledge of loss, a recognition of his new role as head of the family and his sister's protector.

"Eileen asked me about it this morning," Michael added as he returned to his problem. "That is why I asked you."

She would not be troubled to ask me directly. He had seen little of Eileen since her father's death. "How is your sister holding up?"

"Well enough, I suppose. You know Eileen." Michael was already reabsorbed into the neatly-ordered world of sines and cosines.

Walter thought he had known Eileen, at least a little bit, but now she was even more shut off to him than ever. After the burial, most times that he called at Kellynch, he was told that Miss Gilbride was not at home to visitors. Walter knew that Anne was a daily visitor, so he took the hint and stayed away, though he liked it little; but he understood that he must wait for Eileen. He would not intrude upon her grief.

A chill drizzle fell through the night and persisted into morning, so Walter was not surprised to hear Eileen's gig at the time that Michael was expected for his lessons; but her old habit of staying for a visit seemed forgotten. By the time he got to the door, she was already driving away.

Within a few hours the rain had stopped and the sun emerged, so Walter and Michael walked in the shrubbery while they waited for Eileen to return. She was there at the appointed time, with the addition of a groom trailing behind on Michael's horse.

"Ride on ahead," she told her brother. "I would speak with Mr. Musgrove."

Michael looked his surprise, but obediently rode away. The groom took the horse's rein and stood waiting. Clearly Eileen did not mean to make a long stay.

"Will you walk with me?" Walter asked her. "Or is it too damp for you?"

"No, it is not too damp."

They paced the gravel walk in silence for a moment. Finally Walter ventured, "I have missed our conversations."

"As have I."

"I have a notion that the last weeks have been difficult for you."

"Yes." There was another silence.

Time to screw your courage to the sticking-place, Musgrove. "Miss Gilbride--Eileen--I have something to ask you."

She turned to him suddenly, her hand extended, her expression that of an animal cornered by a predator. "No. Wait, please, and hear what I have to say. I have come here to thank you for your many kind services to me and to my family, and to say goodbye."

"Goodbye? Are you leaving Kellynch?"

"Yes. Michael and I are returning to Ireland."

Walter could not breathe. His heart pounded in his chest, steady beats that filled his chest. He had never felt so cold in his life. He stood on the path and stared at her, unable to speak.

Eileen would not look at him. Her words came out in a rush. "I cannot stay at Kellynch by myself, especially when Michael goes off to Cambridge. It would be most improper; you must see that. A cousin in Dublin has kindly offered us a home, and--"

"You could stay," Walter interrupted. "You could stay--not at Kellynch, but at Uppercross. Stay as my wife."

Eileen's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as though she were in great pain. "Your offer is most kind and generous, sir, but I must decline it."

"Why?" He was nearly shouting. "Good God, Eileen, you must know my feelings for you! And I am persuaded that yours are not much different. Can you deny that you care for me?"

"No," she said. "But it cannot be."

"It can," he said, seizing her hands.

She drew them back. "What of Miss Clay?"

"What of her? No matter what some gossiping busybody may have told you--"

"I have heard gossip, certainly; but I hope you know that I would never base my decision on such." Her eyes met his fully. "Walter, I've seen the way you look at her."

"There is nothing between Miss Clay and me," he said. "There was once, yes, but it is long over."

"Is it?" Her eyes glittered. "As recently as the ball at Kellynch last May, it seemed otherwise."

"I was in my cups!"

"In vino veritas. Do you not see? She would always be between us, a third in our marriage. I cannot live like that."

"Do you not trust me?"

"I trust you. I do not trust myself."

He could not counter such an argument; he could only ask, "When do you leave?" in an attempt to determine how much time he had left to prevent it.

"The day after tomorrow."

"So soon!" he cried in dismay. "Michael said not a word."

"Michael does not yet know."

Astonishment was turning to anger. "He does not know? You would root up the boy from what has become his home, everything familiar, so soon after his bereavement? I had not thought you capable of such shabby dealings, Eileen. Do you hate me so much that you must punish your brother along with me?"

"Hate you? I do not hate you, sir." She glanced at him and quickly looked away. "Quite the opposite. And that is why I must leave as soon as I can." She walked quickly toward the garden door.

"Eileen," he cried, following her, "I ask you--I beg you--do not leave. Stay. Stay with me, please. I love you. For God's sake, don't leave me!"

She raised her hand to dash away tears. "Goodbye, Mr. Musgrove." She ran out of the garden and to the gig. She snatched the reins from the groom, who barely had time to climb up behind before she drove off.

Walter stood in his garden; the dry leaves that swirled around his feet were as lifeless as his very soul.

The parsonage was quiet; too quiet. Walter missed Michael. He missed teaching the young man, watching his mind expand like a sponge, soaking up knowledge and brightening the house with his presence. He missed Eileen, too; missed her unannounced visits, missed seeing her digging in the garden, or perusing his library as she waited for a lesson to end. He found himself listening for the sound of her gig outside.

He was listlessly writing a letter when he heard it; a carriage rolling up to the parsonage. When he saw the passenger disembark, his heart leapt within him, beating fast and heavy. He went to the door, unwilling to wait for the housekeeper to announce his guest.

She stood in the doorway, her hair catching the sunlight in a warm glow. She was beautiful, and the sight of her made him smile. The housekeeper took one look at the rector and left them alone. They stood silently for a few moments, and finally she spoke.

"I must beg your pardon most sincerely for the abominably rude manner of my leaving Somerset," she said.

"There is no need," he assured her. "It is good to see you again, Gwen."

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.