Catherine stood by the window in their room. She watched the bushes by the path to the church. With the snow melting, she would be able to see if the rabbit came from underground. She rarely caught sight of it, but it was refreshing when she did. Winter in the country can be beautiful, but confining. With the snow melting so quickly, water stood everywhere and walking was not appealing. Only a few more months to spring and then would come the summer.

Summer. She smiled as she remembered how confused Dr. Abernathy had been when she kept talking of the summer and how things would be so changed. He had finally, in a rather exasperated tone, asked outright about the summer and happenings scheduled. She and Mrs. Graham had exchanged glances and both realised that her darling husband, so concerned for her health, had given minute details of every symptom he could think, except that she was having a child. When the Doctor heard this, he had smiled and made reference to the fact that, in his opinion, the Rector worked much too hard and should slow up a bit.

She turned from the window and went to the closet. She opened the doors and removed a box. It had been brought down from the attic several days earlier, but in all the holiday rush and general living of life, it had been put away and forgotten. The contents of it, while precious to her were also a reminder of a time that had frightened all her family, but was something which had done much to shape her character. It was hard to regret that season of her life. Catherine opened the box gently, almost afraid to disturb any tokens of the past that may have settled themselves about the package. Once opened, the contents were just as she had remembered them. A small, muslin swathed bundle. Laying open the muslin, the snowy white embroidery shone in marked contrast to the raw colour of its envelope. Touching the garment with just the tips of her fingers at first, then with her whole hand, the fineness of the stitches struck her. She had not remembered as well as she had thought. It has been over six years since I brought it out. Tenderly holding the shoulders of the tiny dress, she slowly lifted, freeing it from the muslin and the box in which it had been kept.

She laid the christening gown on the bed, smoothing and straightening the long skirt. Most gowns are stitched on the yoke and perhaps the edges of the skirt and sleeves. This was covered completely. The yoke, front and back, the sleeves and the skirt. It resembled a tapestry more than middling quality lawn from which it had begun. The satin stitches formed flowers and leaves, double running stitches made fanciful swirls and pathways to fields of French knots and boullions. Picot graced the edges of the skirt, sleeves and the neckline. As the stitches had been learned, she had returned from her decline.

Looking at the gown cheered her. While she had worked it with the help of Aunty, she had learned lessons in patience and how there were times that even the mistakes in a piece such as this could be covered and add texture or other stitches entwined with them to make a more intricate and complex pattern. Much like her life, this piece was a combination of the planned, the serendipitous and the frustrating.

She brought the stool from her dressing table closer, she sat. Examining the stitches and remembering. Catherine had not thoroughly put her mind to Laurence Darby in years. She had given him thought just before she married Edward. Enough time to renew the belief, that had Laurence lived, he would not have married her. Laurence had come to Glencoe from the northeast of Shropshire, from Coalbrookdale, to visit what Darby family remained in the district. He had taken a fancy to Catherine's quick mind and what bit of youthful bloom there had been. She was never alarmed by his reckless behavior and laughed in all the right places when he boasted of his daring adventures. He rode too fast, either astride his horse or in a conveyance. On picnics he always climbed the cliffs of Duncock further than everybody else. To his own detriment, he used fewer precautions than anyone when working on the Ironbridge.

The Ironbridge, between Madeley Wood and Benthall had been built by Abraham Darby III, Laurence's father. It had been completed in 1779, so he had grown up with the bridge as a very visible reminder of his family and their influence in the area. Mr. Darby had been well pleased when his eldest son had shown a talent for engineering and building. He had fostered the interest in hopes that his son would one day accomplish a task as monumental as the first ironwork bridge in the world. Those dreams, along with Catherine's had been shattered on a bright August day in the year '04. Laurence had been in a harness to inspect some of the metal wedges which tighten the bridge's joints. He was hanging precariously, forty feet above the Severn River when the equipment failed and he fell into the low running river. The water did nothing to cushion his fall. When he was brought to the bank, he was alive, but not conscious. Catherine was sent for, as though she had been his intended, but he died while she journeyed.

He had been an ardent man who lived by his passions, had he genuinely desired her as a wife, it would have been accomplished. After all was said and done, his family had been kind, but in the end she had been nothing to them. Without so much as a proposal to attach herself by, they had patted and sympathised, but they had their own grief to feel. They had stayed in Coalbrookdale and Catherine had come back to Glencoe, never hearing from them again.

A woman who is assumed to be the object of a man's affections, but not the receiver of a proposal, not the one he declares publicly he wishes to wed, is left upon his death with nothing. Not even the idea of her grief being legitimate. Catherine had centered her life about Laurence and marriage for many months. Both families were assuming as much. Laurence himself allowed all to think that way. But he had never asked. She would never know if she had taken too much for granted or had he used her to keep his family at bay. He was young and perhaps had not been ready for a family. None of these musings hurt any longer. At one time, they had consumed her and kept her from sleep for days. Now they were idle thoughts which had no more power over her emotions than whether she would see the rabbit that day or not.

Catherine heard voices in the hallway and the sound of heavy steps. The door began to open and she heard, "Frederick, I'm sorry I laughed. I am very tired and it just struck . . ." slam.

Edward winced and entered their room. For a moment looked as if he too would slam a door. He looked at Catherine and shook his head. "My brother can be the most . . . exasperating man I know. The one time I lose control of myself in all these machinations of his and he acts as if I have committed high treason against him!" Edward said warmly. He sat in his old green chair and glowered at nothing in particular. All her thoughts of the Darbys' and the dress, vanished. The present always has a way of demanding that we come away from the past.

"What is wrong? Why would you say that about Frederick? He cannot seem to contrive any plans concerning him and Miss Elliot, much less anything evil. The last I heard it sounded as if you all were the best of friends, I could hear you laughing all the way up here," she said.

Edward realised he had said the wrong thing and must amend, "You are right, machinations was not at all what I meant, I meant convolutions in affairs. And as for the laughing, that is most likely the problem. I was laughing. In the course of Dr. Abernathy's visit to me, Frederick came in and I introduced them. We found the good Doctor to be, of all things, Miss Louisa Musgrove's cousin. After he left, I broke into hysterics. The irony of it all was completely lost on my brother," Edward said, hoping she would see his point.

"The Miss Musgrove--of Lyme? Well that is quite a fluke. Did the Doctor know of her present condition? That may do well to ease his mind a bit," Catherine said compassionately, not suspecting that no matter what Louisa Musgrove's condition, it was something which would only bring Frederick agitation rather than comfort.

"No. He has no idea of even the details and we decided not to enlighten him as to Frederick's connexion to the business." Edward rose from his seat and walked to Catherine, putting his arms about her, he said, "Let us forget Frederick, Miss Musgrove's cousin and all of that for now. What have you been doing since the Doctor left you?" he asked as he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. " By the bye, I am greatly relieved to hear him say you are well,"

She smiled. "I began to know how concerned you were when you told me he had been called. I think my parents frightened you with tales of my decline so long ago. They have you fearing any sign of lowness as an indication of my imminent fall to despair," she said, melodramatically. Edward looked a bit sheepish. He did not wish to admit she was more correct than not. "I think it is important that you see something," she said. She leaned some to gently take the dress and present it to him. He looked at her and then the dress. Taking it from her, he began to examine it. As a curate and now a rector, he had seen christening gowns of all types. The low and the high. The old and the new. This one was unique and amazingly embellished. Lifting it and turning it he saw it covered with ornamentation from top to bottom and back to a front. "This is brilliant. It must have taken the seamstress months, perhaps a year to do all this," he said, quite impressed with the work.

"It took three months," Catherine said matter-of-factly.

"You made this? I am very impressed with your talent. I have only seen you mend, never create anything so grand as this. Pray, who did you sew this for?" he asked curiously.

"To begin with, David and Margaret's boy. We had only just found they were expecting when Laurence died. So Aunty said that such a happy occasion would be our inspiration. Then when the time came, Margaret had another gown picked out--I was quite relieved. So, at one time or another, it has been intended for each niece or nephew. I suppose I am coming more to the conclusion that, all along, it has been intended for our child," she said as she took it back from him. Folding it with care, she placed it back in the muslin and the muslin in the box. "Whenever I tried to give it, something would stop me and I found I could never part with it. Finally, six years ago I stopped trying and put it away. Little did I suspect that one day I would have a child to place in it," said she with a bit of awe in her voice.

"Who was this Aunty you spoke of?" Edward asked.

She turned back to her husband and said, " She was connected with Mother's family somehow and I never even knew her true name. When I allowed myself to fall so far after Laurence died, Aunty was brought to the house. She taught me to do all that embroidery work. Mother called it 'putting my hand to the plow and not looking back.' Day after day she would come and we would sew. She told me of her life and stories about the stitches. Instead of being so intent on self-pity, I began to see how I was hurting the rest of the family with my--indulgence." Catherine walked over to the chair and sat while she continued, "I had stopped talking to most everyone and wouldn't eat, but as I worked on this," she said pointing to the box. "I amended that. It all happened almost unnoticed to me. I was more interested in working on the dress than worrying about how I felt slighted by Laurence and his family."

"She showed me that every life has harshness about it. She had met with so much tragedy, but still had such fire and joy. Two husbands had died, several children also and one was mentally deranged. I had no excuse in the face of her example. I likened it to me falling and scraping my knees while she had been dashed by a carriage and four. By the time I was finished with the dress, I was whole again. Aunty went back to the place she had come from and my life started anew. She died two years later and Mother was reluctant to tell me, thinking I may fall back, but I had learned the lessons well and I know them well now. You need not fear anything such as that happening again. I am quite sound," she said with confidence.

"This only proves I am a foolish man. I had always wondered why the picture your parents painted seemed so . . . at odds with the Catherine I knew. Your father especially. He sees you as a rather delicate woman," Edward smiled as he came and sat on the arm of the chair. "In his mind, you are prone to being easily bruised emotionally."

"I suppose we see people as we want them to be or perhaps as we saw them last. Once I was better, life at home picked back up and maybe he has not looked closely since. He is a kind man, but he does have seven children to keep account of and now spouses and grandchildren. I cannot expect he would know me all that well any longer," she said, resting her head on his arm. He stood and pulled her from the chair. He sat and pulled her back down to his lap. "Oh! Edward do not do this. I am too heavy for you to do this with," she said struggling to get to her feet. Holding her down he said, "You are fine. Unless of course you are afraid the chair cannot support the both of us. Be still. I want to just sit." She stopped struggling and he kept his arms around her waist. He leaned his head against her. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the quiet.

Meanwhile, as Edward and Catherine were partaking of a tender and quiet time together, Frederick was helping himself to a generous serving of dudgeon. He was feeling rather foolish for his display of pique. Slamming the door had been a childish act. Still, he thought, Edward had no business laughing, no matter how ludicrous the entire situation. You know good and well that you would laugh if it were someone else in the scrape, he thought. Drawing the chair to the window, he sat and placed his feet on the bedstead, balancing the chair on its back legs, he proceeded to watch the snow melt. Coming back to his original thoughts, he decided he would indeed be diverted by someone else being seated under the sword of Damocles, especially of his own doing. When one does it to themselves, it takes on a less amusing air.

Dr. Abernathy had said that the Musgroves were already planning the wedding. "I have not even asked for her hand and they have begun the preparations for the return of the prodigal--or rather the fatted calf," he muttered to himself. The Doctor had said that his aunt was expecting Miss Musgrove home in a few weeks. Frederick hoped to have more communication from Harville. It would undoubtedly be more thorough than parroted rumors from a distant relative. "You are rather peevish today, are you not, Captain?" he chided himself. The comment about the doctor was uncharitable at best. There was no reason to disparage anyone in this except himself. Edward had every reason to laugh. Dr. Abernathy was completely innocent of anything other than stumbling upon a rather odd coincidence. There was no blame here except his.

If he could only do as Edward had outlined. But Edward was not the one who would have to live with the reputation of libertine and seducer. It would not be his immoral and dissolute behavior that would be the discussion of housewives and merchants all over the district. Never mind that the most he had done was act in an ill-conceived and improvident manner. The magnitude of his deeds would grow and multiply as the tale was retold. Even if he were to go to Mr. Musgrove and humble himself as Edward put it, all the idle speculation of his behavior with Louisa would eventually make its way to Anne. She would hear others' suppositions and theories. He would certainly be sunk with her. Then where would he be? Anne completely gone from him. A ruin for a reputation.

But just suppose Edward were right. Could he possibly be right?

"Ed--ward. Ed--ward," Catherine whispered. "Wake up. Please wake up. My feet are tingling." They had been sitting in the chair now for three quarters of an hour. Edward had fallen asleep quickly and her generous heart had kept her from awakening him. But now it was not her generous heart which had gone numb, it was her legs and she was fatigued from trying to stay still. When she had tried earlier to rise, Edward had tightened his grasp 'round her waist and nestled closer into her.

"Mm . . . I have no choice. Ed--ward!" she said louder while shaking his shoulder.

"Wha . . . Why are you on my lap?" he looked at her with a quizzical stare.

"I believe you had some fancy notion of a tete-a-tete, but then you fell asleep. So much for sweet conversation," she said, eyeing him teasingly. "And when I attempted to rise you held me tighter. I was quite stuck. But now you may release me, sir." Edward unclasped his hands and opened his arms allowing her to move. "If it were not for the numbness in my legs, I think I liked having you my prisoner," he said mischievously. While holding his wife to himself all afternoon was an appealing thought he had decided that he must visit Joshua and was determined to leave the house before something else took his attention.

"What have you in your waistcoat? It was poking me in a rather fleshy part of my hip. I am most likely bruised now," she said in a tone of mock irritation. She rubbed the chafed hip. Though the irritated tone was feigned, the sore spot was not.

"Oh! It must be this. I nearly forgot, Sophy sent you a letter." Edward said, drawing it from his inner pocket. He looked at the packet and pretended to assay it in his hand. "It must have cost Croft a small prize to send, it feels to be at least six pages," He held it out to her, but as she reached to receive it, he snatched it back. "Ah . . . I think I deserve a prize of my own for hand delivery. What would you say to a kiss?" he asked with the same mischievous tone he had used earlier. She looked at him a moment, weighing her words. "Only if you kissed whomever hand delivered it to you," said she with equal playfulness. With a smile, she bestowed the kiss and took the letter.

"I wonder why she wrote to me? She has always written to you in the past," Catherine said as she sat and broke the seal.

"Perhaps she has a secret she does not want me to know."

Dropping her hands, with the letter to her lap, she shot a look to her husband, "I think I have had quite enough of Wentworth secrets to last my life time. No more, please!"

Edward frowned, "You are right. Perhaps it is just gossip she feels would be quite above me? Better?"

"Yes. I am certain it will be diverting no matter what the content. Your sister has a way of making all things amusing."

Edward was bent over, using the mirror on the dressing table to retie his neckcloth. "Yes, she can. Unfortunately, she has also been known to make things not so amusing as though they were. I am afraid that my sister is somewhat coarse at times," he said as he tucked in the ends. Going to the closet, with no looking at all, he took one of his three black jackets. When a man wears the same costume day in and day out, there is no need to look. Adjusting the coat and smoothing the lapels, pulling down the sleeves, he was finished. "I do not know how long I shall be, Catherine. I have not seen Joshua for nearly two weeks and there may be a great deal to talk of. I think I need the company of someone, other than you, who is not in the midst of grinding-emotional-turmoil," he said emphatically.

Catherine arched her brow, "Heavens! grinding emotional turmoil and machinations. You are not holding your brother in high regard today." She had the feeling there was more going on in the house than she knew. Her brief sojourn into indulgence had brought a void in her knowledge of Frederick's affairs. Well, things would have to stay that way, she was not going to put effort into that again. Little did she know, there would be no effort involved.

"I wonder if I should ask Frederick to join me? Perhaps a ride out would improve his humour," he said looking to his wife for her opinion.

"Perhaps. Though when you ask, I would stand well clear of the door," she said, smiling to him.

"I shall!"

She could hear Edward knocking on the door and an exchange of words. Catherine could not hear exactly what was being said, but there did not seem to be any acrimony or anger. She hoped that Frederick had taken this time to bring his emotions under control. It did no good to have the entire household in uproar. The sound of a closing door signaled the end of conversation between the two. Edward came down the hall and leaned in saying, "Frederick is not going to join me, but he will be going for a ride. He said that he will be gone for tea. I will return as soon as possible," he said turning to leave.

"Edward! Come here," she cried rising from the chair and hurrying to the door, scattering the letter as she went.

"What?" he said leaning back in the room.

"This." Catherine took his face in her hands and kissed him rather deep and long for so early in the afternoon.

When she drew away from him, he opened his eyes and said, "What was that for?"

"For calling the doctor. Though I did not need him, it shows you were looking out for me. I rather like that," she said as she pushed him out the door. "Now go to Joshua, you need his company, remember?"

"Yes, dear!" he called as the door closed. On his way down the stairs, he mused that any conversation with Joshua would need to be extremely interesting to keep his attention after his wife's astonishing adieu.

Catherine smiled with satisfaction. She was sorry she had worried him, but it was wonderful to know she was so well cared for. As she made her way back to the chair, she gathered the pages of the letter from the floor. As she was putting order to them, she saw the name Musgrove several times. She was tempted to start the letter at the end, but knew it would then require going back and trying to understand the context of every entry. "We shall begin at the beginning, no matter how tantilising the rest."

Dearest Catherine

My dearest sister, greetings and felicitations from the Admiral and myself. I thought it time that I write to you instead of Edward. His replies are terribly short and unsatisfactory in most ways. I assume he discharges his duties to the parish with more elucidation.

Catherine smiled at this for she knew the reason Edward's letters were short was he would rather talk than write. His 'duties' to the parish were discharged by speaking to people and preaching his sermons. His notes were short and concise, no wasted ink.

You on the other hand, I am sure are better schooled in the art of letter writing. I am confident that correspondence with you will be more satisfying than my brother. Both the Admiral and I are overjoyed to hear the news of a child coming to the Wentworth family. It has always been a grief that we were not blessed, but all things work together for good. I have been able to accompany the Admiral for most of his career and that would not have been possible otherwise. The Admiral is anxious to dandle a baby on his knee. I am anxious to see my brother tidy up after.

"There will certainly be none of that, Sophy," she said quietly

At the first of the next month, the Admiral and I will be repairing to Bath. His gout is flaring oftener and with more intensity than he is able to brook. The physician here is recommending the waters and much walking. There is local business we will be obliged to conclude and it will tie us here for several more weeks. Poor man, he does not complain, but I know him to be in much anguish. While the Admiral does not put much store by it, have Edward pray. There is no harm in employing all options.

"Perhaps the dear Admiral will one day understand that God is not an option. But we shall pray," she said as she continued to read.

Our accommodations in Bath are arranged. We were fortunate to secure a place in Gay Street. Quite posh enough for our circle and even for those who keep an accounting of such things. Have you been to Bath, Catherine? We would love for you and Edward to visit. Of course this would be dependent upon your condition. Just know we will welcome you with open arms and a warm room.

"That is sweet. Perhaps we could . . . ," she went on.

While there, we hope to see neighbors from Kellynch. Lady Russell and Miss Anne Elliot left just a week ago and are missed sorely. The neighborhood is lacking for their absence. Lady Russell has become a good acquaintance and Miss Elliot is very dear to us. Miss Anne is the daughter of our leaseholder, Sir Walter Elliot. I do not mean to make you feel ignorant by explaining all these connexions, but this way, you will not need to bother with Edward to understand all the players. Anywise, we are looking forward to seeing them both. Tell Frederick that Miss Elliot is very polite to inquire of him at nearly all our meetings. She is aware of courtesies, unlike himself.

At the mention of Miss Elliot, Catherine sat up straighter in the chair. She read again how Miss Elliot inquires after Frederick upon nearly all their meetings. "Of course she does. She cares for him just as he does her. I knew it! If only they knew it of one another."

On the final page, information came to Catherine which Edward had chosen not to share and Frederick had purposely lead her from.

Now for the most unpleasant portion of this missive. What of that rapscallion Frederick? I am quite put out with him and do not mind you telling him so in my stead. We have heard not one word from him since he came to Kellynch Hall, in person, at the end of November! Catherine, what do you think of a man, over thirty, who is not able to put pen to paper and inform his family and others close to him as to his whereabouts? I hope you will not take offence at my using you as a messenger my dearest Sister, but please tell Frederick that Mrs. Musgrove has enquired as to when he expects to return to Uppercross. They are anxious to announce things between Miss Louisa and himself as official. While I had hoped this attachment would wane, it is obviously strong enough to warrant preparations. They are concerned that he has made himself so little seen in Lyme, but Mrs. Musgrove owes it to Frederick's sensibilities being aggrieved by her daughter's accident. She wishes him to know Miss Musgrove has made amazing progress. The surgeon does not feel there is permanent damage. I have been told that there are no abilities which have been lost. Frederick must make himself known soon, or there may be harsh words coming his way.

Catherine dropped the letter to her lap. The closing had been a kind salutation, again congratulating them on the baby. She hurriedly read the last of the letter again. "He is engaged, or at least as good as. How can this be?" she said aloud. "He cares for Miss Elliot, not Miss Musgrove. But how despicable, to leave this poor girl alone when she is hurt. What kind of man is my brother?"

As Catherine read the letter and pondered what she had not known before, Frederick had left for his ride.

There was a wind picking up from the west and as it blew, Frederick drew his coat closer to himself. It was late afternoon and the sun was sliding away quickly. He had no intentions of being gone from the house for a lengthy period. The warming that had come was not enough to entice him stay out long. Just enough time to clear his head and try to straighten some jumbled thoughts. Giving his horse her head, he let her go where she would. He had been out nearly thirty minutes. As he was about to turn back, he spied a curricle on the bridge leading to Glencoe. The driver was out and seemed to be peering over the railing to the water below. For a moment Frederick hesitated, better to leave whoever it is to their business, but then something in the man's movements changed his mind. He touched her flanks to quicken her pace a bit when he realized that the man on the bridge was Dr. Abernathy.

Coming along side the man and his rig, Frederick said, "Doctor, interesting we should meet again so soon. What brings you to stop on the bridge?" When spoken to, the doctor did not answer. He was leaning on the rail and had on foot lifted to the second support. He swayed a bit but had no trouble catching himself. In spite of this, Frederick realized that the Doctor was somewhat drunk. Not thoroughly, but enough to make him wobbly. He dismounted and stood next to him.

"Doctor? Are you all right? May I be of assistance to you?" Frederick asked. He spoke a trifle louder than he had, hoping to get the Doctor's attention. Dealing with men in this condition was something, about which he had quite a lot of experience.

"Oh! Captain Wentworth. Good to see you. It was just yesterday was it not? We met at your brother's, the Rector, right?" He looked at Frederick with a look of surprise and showed no sign of having heard him earlier.

"Actually, it was earlier today, you came to see his wife. Are you all right? Can I take home, you seem a bit under the weather?" said the Captain. It occurred to him that getting the Doctor off the bridge would be wise. He kept staring at the water and the motion caused him to totter. "Come, Doctor. Let us move to a less dizzying vantage." He took the Doctor by the shoulders with the intention of helping him to his rig and taking him home. The Doctor was not ready to quit the bridge.

Keeping to the railing, the Doctor resisted Frederick's grasp. Leaning on the railing, he thought it best to leave Abernathy where he was and just stand nearby for a time and watch for an opening to remove him. For a man three sheets to the wind, the Doctor was actually very steady. Most anyone watching a flowing current sways after a while. They both continued to watch. Frederick watched the Doctor and the Doctor watched the river.

"Have you ever felt like just jumping in?" came the question.

A sensation of shock went through Frederick at this question. "No. Never. Have you?" he asked.

"Nearly every day. I come over this bridge and think how easy it would be to toss myself in and be done with all of it" Abernathy said. His voice was not dull or slurred as most drunks. He sounded terribly lucid to Frederick.

"Why would you want to be done with everything? Most people would think you have a good life."

"Most people do not know much about me or anyone else for that matter. People always assume that things are better than they are."

Frederick did not know what to say to this. These were philosophical questions best left to Edward. All he could do at this point was listen and wait for an opportunity to take the man home.

"People thought that my wife was happy here. She was not. Had she lived, she would most likely be in London now. Have you ever been in love, Captain?" he asked, turning in Frederick's direction. He looked directly at him and patiently awaited the answer.

This was becoming uncomfortable. A questioning drunk, a darkening sky and his being in too deep now to leave. He shifted around so he was leaning with one arm on the railing. "Yes. I have been in love, what of it?"

Still looking at Frederick, he asked, "Have you ever loved a woman who did not love you in return? In fact, one who had come to hate the very sight of you?" The Doctor sighed heavily and turned back to the water.

"No. I never have had that experience." He felt rather guilty, obviously the Doctor knew of it intimately.

The Doctor suddenly pushed himself away from the railing and stood straight. "I wish to go home now. Will you help me, sir? I seem to have partaken a bit too heavily tonight." He turned to the curricle and clambered to the seat. "Could you drive, Captain? I am on the verge of falling asleep and it would not look well if I ended in the midst of a field somewhere."

"Certainly, Doctor." Frederick was amazed that this was ending so easily. He tied his horse to the curricle and hoisted himself up. He took the reins and they set off.

While Catherine was pondering her brother-in-law and Frederick was escorting the Doctor, Edward was receiving an amazing announcement.

From a distance, Edward could see that there was a carriage at Joshua's. At first, he thought that it must be the Doctor. Then he recalled that the Doctor drove a curricle, not anything as large as that in the drive. This was a personal carriage. He rode up and nodded to the driver. "Where are you from, sir?" Edward asked. "Shrewsbury, Father. I was hopin' to get back tonight, but I guess the mister's business won't allow fer it." The driver tipped his hat to Edward and sat back, waiting for his master.

Edward parked the gig and dismounted. As he tied the reigns to the post, he wondered what he was going to find inside. His insides gave a lurch. He could not stand to find anything wrong--not with Joshua. He went to the door and was about to knock when the door opened, there stood Joshua himself.

Enter my friend! I am glad you have come! Taking Edward by the arm, he nearly pulled him inside.

"I am sorry that I gave you no notice. Things have gotten a bit out of hand and I just needed to park myself by your fire and chat a bit," he said removing his hat. He removed his gloves and unbuttoned his coat. Joshua helped him off with his coat and took all to be hung away. Edward entered the room to see the man who must be the owner of the carriage. He was a smallish man, balding and slight. The cut of his suit was first-rate and glancing at his shoes, Edward saw they were quality. There was money here, taking into account the coach and all. There were papers spread on nearly every surface. Edward knew enough of all this. Joshua was consulting with a solicitor.

"I think I should go, Joshua. You look to be engaged in some important business here, I can come back another time."

No! No! You must stay! I want to tell you something. Very good news.

"All right, if you are sure that I will not be in the way," Edward said as he found a seat without papers on it.

Where are my manners? Reverend Edward Wentworth, this is my solicitor, Jonathan Mayhew-Jones, Esquire.

Both men rose from their respective seats to shake hands and exchange pleasantries.

Mr. Mayhew-Jones spoke first, "Joshua tells me that the two of you have become quite good friends over the course of the last ten months or so. I was glad to hear that he had allowed you to come and visit him. I have endeavored over the years to encourage his . . . sociability." Glancing at Joshua he continued, "It is good to know my advice is not always ignored." Mayhew-Jones and Joshua traded smiles.

This was all a bit confusing for Edward. He could tell that this was a long standing . . . not acquaintance, this had all the markings of a friendship. But not many men had this type of ease with their attorney. The puzzle was broadening when Joshua asked if he would care for tea. He said yes, which would give him a chance to talk to Mr. Mayhew-Jones. Joshua left and Edward turned to him and asked, "I do not mean to be presumptuous, but how long have you known Joshua?

Mr. Mayhew-Jones looked over his glasses at Edward and then decided to answer him. "I have known Joshua for nearly twenty-five years. My father first represented him when he came to the age of majority and was granted ownership of this property. He came personally to make a yearly accounting and I began to come with him." He sat back on the chair he was seated and flexed his shoulders, looking back at Edward, he said, "I am sure that Joshua did not tell you he has an attorney. You seem surprised to see me."

"Well, yes. Frankly, I did not think of him as a man who would need the services of an attorney. Also, I was under the impression that Joshua has not had anyone out here. I supposed I flattered myself that I had gotten him to allow me," he said with a modest smile.

"I would not underestimate that as an achievement. Mr. Junkins only allowed my father, then myself when I took on his affairs, out of necessity. He had to have someone in the outside world at work for him. We were essential to his business. You he chose to be his friend. Knowing the quality of Joshua's mind, I would say, that is the greater compliment." Mayhew-Jones looked thoughtful for a moment, as though he were weighing a matter in his mind. He then took on a look of a man who has made a decision. He slowly removed his glasses and putting them in his breast pocket, began, "Reverend, Joshua has been in the process of negotiations of a rather . . . delicate nature. These negotiations have changed the course of his life, irrevocably. He wishes to tell you of it soon, and since you have, fortuitously appeared today, I assume he shall do so before you leave. I wish you to know, that as one who has represented him legally for years, and someone who genuinely likes Mr. Junkins, I have done all within my power to keep him legally . . . secure. I do not mean to be cryptic, but I am not a liberty to discuss this outright. But as a mutual friend of his, I wish you to know, after much research, I think this to be as prudent a plan for him as any others he has embarked upon," the attorney said. He took his glasses from his breast pocket, put them on and went back to his papers.

After what the lawyer said, Edward was not sure whether to be alarmed or as Mayhew-Jones had advised, take comfort from all the careful . . . negotiations. "You will please excuse me, sir. I think I had better talk to Joshua," he said rising to go to the kitchen. He had chosen to be alarmed and desired that his curiosity be satisfied immediately. Entering the kitchen, he found it littered with barrels and crates of all sizes and descriptions. It suddenly came upon him--Joshua was leaving Crown Hill!

Joshua looked up from the tea preparations and smiled at Edward. I have quite a scramble here, do I not? It will come to order eventually.

"When did you intend to tell me about this?" Edward asked rather sharply. "I thought we were friends, but it seems that you have been planning to steal away for some time, by what the lawyer says. Was I to receive a polite, yet legal document outlining the heretos of your going?" He was worked up now and only the grin on Joshua's face pulled him back from going on and embarrassing himself further. "What are you smiling for? I do not see the humour in the situation."

So you would miss me if I were to leave?

"What do you mean . . . 'if you were to leave?' You look to be in process of such now. Of course I would miss you, what a foolish thing to ask."

I am not leaving. Someone is moving here.

This took Edward a moment to absorb. When a man who has had no society -- well, not much society for thirty years, says the words 'someone is moving here', it is a bit to take in. "So you have taken a housekeeper? A servant of some sort? Why all the moving paraphernalia?"

I have not taken a servant. I am taking a wife.

At times in Edward's life he had been made senseless. Once from a blow to the head and once when Sophy had declared she wished to become a papist and take orders, (this only being the first salvo in an elaborate plan for a new dress) but he had never been so dumbfounded as this left him.

"A wife? Where have you found a woman . . . " The sentence dropped away. Edward realized that he would not be able to say anything without it sounding as if he doubted that any woman would ever have Joshua. "Tell me about her," Edward said. This was a better sounding route.

I know it is difficult to imagine that a woman would have me. But she will. She is well aware of my . . . deformities and is not frightened by them. Come with me.

Joshua led Edward to the upstairs of the cottage. He had never been in this part of the house. When they came to the landing, Edward looked about and true to the rest of the home, the furnishings were good and the paints and papers cheerful. He was motioned to what must be Joshua's own bedchamber. Edward felt awkward at first, being in a room so personal to someone else. While Joshua busied himself lighting candles, it gave him an opportunity to observe the room. As he looked about, he saw paintings and renderings. Framed documents and mementos of a full life all around the room. Joshua seemed to like to arrange things in a diorama-like style.

On a small table, near the bed, crudely carved wooden animals were set to look as though they were in a wilderness with bits of dried greenery placed about them to simulate bushes. A Chinese doll and rice paper fan graced a wall shelf next to a watercolour of cranes flying over a pagoda. Edward drew in his breath sharply. On Joshua's dresser was a velvet bag of seashells. They had been a gift from him. When he had found the sea to be one of Joshua's particular loves, he had hunted them up from the attic and given them. His friend had taken the shells and arranged them as though they were spilling from the bag onto a large shard of light blue glass, much like they were returning into the sea. All around them were things that looked to be of great value mixed with homely and common things. He had quite a museum.

He caught Edward's arm and brought him to his bedside. He picked up a miniature painting and handed it to his friend.

This is Beatrice Lowell. She has agreed to be my wife. Some of her things have begun to arrive, that is what you saw in the kitchen. Household things, china and such.

Edward studied the painting. Beatrice Lowell was a well looking woman. Dark brown hair. Dark eyes. A kind smile. As much as a portrait tells was told here.

"How did you meet her?" Edward asked.

Joshua went on to tell how several years before, he had developed an interest in lighthouses. He corresponded with several people and found the keeper on Thatcher Island, off the coast of Massachusetts to be a lively man of like mind. About the sea, at least. They wrote monthly for a year or two when Mr. Lowell died suddenly of pneumonia. His widow Beatrice, who had actually read the letters to her husband and written the replies, sent what was thought to be one last letter, telling of her husband's death. Joshua, being a kind man, sent his condolences. She being equally polite, sent a thank you. Neither one of them being given much to convention, continued to correspond. At first, their letters had centered around the friendship the two men had shared, but gradually, topics moved around to books and philosophy, poetry and art. Mrs. Lowell had married down in her choice of a husband. She had loved him dearly, but it was a joy to share these things with a man who, while not having any interaction with it, obviously had an understanding of the wider world.

Joshua had told all about himself in the course of the letters with Mr. Lowell so there were no shocks or surprises when things took a more--personal turn. The letters had taken on a more intimate nature. (Edward smiled, as Joshua had blushed in the saying of this.) The time had come that Joshua and Beatrice must either declare something of their feelings or quit the letter writing altogether. He had chosen the former and proposed. She accepted and then the delicate negotiations had begun. While her husband had been a mere lighthouse keep, he had been a clever man. In the course of keeping, he had invented and patented a mechanism by which the revolutions of the light were synchronised with an oiler, insuring smooth operation between regular inspections. The invention had brought some money which he had invested well and was bringing a good return. Beatrice, when she had to leave the lighthouse, was not penniless. To give assurance of each one's artlessness, they had exchanged names of solicitors and given permission to make ' inquiries'. If her attorney had made half the investigation which Mayhew-Jones, Esq. had, she was very safe. All that was left was her actual arrival. Many of her things had proceeded her and were beginning to come to the house. Joshua was even forcing himself to be present when things were arriving. He found that to be the most difficult part of all this, finally being seen by people who had, to that point, only heard of him.

They had seated themselves on the bed while Joshua had given his narrative. Edward sat amazed. Leave it to this odd, much loved friend of his to arrange his marriage by way of a widow's correspondence and a lawyer. Catherine had always said that it was a shame that a woman for Joshua could not just appear from nowhere. To Edward at least, she had.

"Come Doctor, let us quit the rig and go in. The wind is vicious and you are not in a condition to be out here long," Frederick said, trying to convince Dr. Abernathy to come down from the curricle. Journeying from the bridge had proven difficult in that a sudden, strong wind was challenging all movement. The gusts had threatened to send the rig and horses off the road. It had been fortunate that the Captain had found Abernathy since, in his condition, it is certain that he would have never arrived home. They had arrived, but now the Doctor was nearly lifeless from fatigue. He did not wish to leave the rig, not being sensible to the severity of the weather.

"I suppose that I will have to carry him in," Frederick said to himself. Having dismounted the curricle, he turned to step up and arrange the doctor so he could be lifted out over the Captain's shoulder. At the same time, the Doctor elected to dismount himself. Owing to a badly timed gust of wind, a slip of Abernathy's hand and his stumbling on the brandy bottle which had, to now, been secreted under the seat; Frederick found himself for the second time in recent memory, flat on his back with the wind gone from him. The difference between the two instances being, he now had a slightly doused physician lying across his legs.

"Captain Wentworth?" Abernathy shouted over the wind. He began to pick himself up from his prone position.

"Yes, Dr. Abernathy?" Frederick replied with equal force.

"Have I injured you in any way?" he asked as he stood over Frederick and offered him his hand for a pull up.

"No! I am quite well." He said as he got to his feet. After the Doctor had fallen on him, the wind had gotten Frederick's hat and sent it to parts unknown. This left his head exposed and feeling the cold sooner than Abernathy, who, by some strange turn, had kept hold of his. "Doctor, could we go into the house, I'm feeling a chill," he yelled.

"Of course! Come along." They made their way to the door and entered the cottage.

"Mrs. Dalton! I need you, please." He turned to Frederick, "Mrs. Dalton is a jewel. How she has managed me since my wife's death, I shall never fathom."

An older lady, apparently Mrs. Dalton, appeared from the kitchen. She smiled at the doctor as she took his coat, Frederick raised his hand to decline. "Yes sir. What can I get for you and your guest? Supper is up if you are willin'," the housekeeper said with a cheerful tone.

"Captain? Can I interest you in a bite? I feel I owe you something for all the trouble I have caused," he said apologetically.

Frederick knew he was expected at the Rectory. Catherine and Edward would be wondering where he was, but listening to the wind howl outside reminded him of the ride home to come. He thought the best to do would be leaving the doctor in the hands of the housekeeper and get to the road. "I am sorry, but I should get back to my brother and his wife. It is past the time I thought I would be back and they will worry. Perhaps another time." He nodded to Mrs. Dalton and the Doctor. As he turned to the door, Abernathy noticed he had no hat.

"Captain, you cannot make such a long ride without some covering for your head. As you pointed out earlier, the wind is vicious," he said.

"Well . . . when we had our little . . . misadventure outside, I lost it to the wind. Not that it was much, but now I would guess that is more than half way to the coast," he said with a slight laugh.

"Then, please take one of mine. As a doctor, I can tell you that you need one on a night as this," he said as he handed the Captain one of his own. Frederick put it on and they found that the Doctor was rather more endowed when it came to his ability to fill a hat. Using his thumb to push the brim from the bridge of his nose, he looked at Abernathy and grinned, "I think it would be best if I went without."

"No! I know exactly what is required here." Turning to Mrs. Dalton he said, "Would you please go to the second room and bring the box from Bradley's into the sitting room? Oh! And have Mr. Dalton take care of the rig, please."

As Frederick removed the hat, Dr. Abernathy began to guide him into the sitting room. "She will be here presently. While she is gone, I would like to talk to you a moment, Captain. Please, just a moment of your time?" he asked politely.

The Doctor did not seem to be feeling the effects of his venture into the bottle. He was amiable and seemed none the worse for wear. Frederick decided that his best course was to sit a moment and then be done with the whole business. He entered the room and took a look about. Mrs. Abernathy, whatever her faults, was a woman of marvelous taste. The entire room blended and soothed. There were no sharp colours to offend the eye. The overall feel was graceful and mellow. Specific pieces were of finest quality and the rest were well matched. A portrait of a woman caught Frederick's eye. The woman looked to be very young. She was striking. Her dark eyes were intelligent looking, but somehow distant. The hair and clothing looked to be a few seasons past. This must be Mrs. Abernathy some years ago.

"That was taken when she was sixteen--before I knew her. She looked little changed when she passed. Her youthfulness never left. Can you see why I fell so deeply in love?" the Doctor asked.

"She was a beautiful woman," he said turning to him.

"I wanted to apologise to you, I am rather embarrassed that you saw me in that condition. I am generally more private about my--intemperance. Mr. and Mrs. Dalton have been the only audience I have entertained until now, and I seem to pay well enough that they are reluctant to tarnish me in the market. Again, I apologise." Abernathy turned from the Captain and went to a wingback chair facing the fire. He sat and motioned for Frederick to have a seat.

He came and took the seat, watching the Doctor. "I suppose that you, a man of the world, is rather amused that I have such a fixation with my dead wife. Since, as I said on the bridge, she had grown to hate me, I think," he said all this with a far away look in his eye. He was gazing at the picture, but did not seem to see it.

Frederick did not know what to say. He did not want to create any more difficulties for the Doctor by attempting to wax profound. Even as he thought this, he knew he must answer. "If you mean by 'man of the world' that I have traveled to many a quarter upon the compass, you would be correct. If you mean a man who has extensive experience with women, you would be wrong. Saying that, I do not find a man so devoted to a woman, amusing. A man does not overcome a devotion such as yours without struggle." Some never overcome at all, he thought to himself. "There is nothing amusing about that quality of love, especially when it is--unrequited."

Mrs. Dalton entered the room with the box. Thanking the housekeeper, the Doctor rose and took it from her. He brought it to the chairs. Opening it, he revealed a fine hat of black wool felt, hand shaped with a rolled brim and well-tooled leather band. Handing it to Frederick he said, " It was a gift from Victoria's father when we removed ourselves from London to settle here. He thought I should attempt to look the part of country gentleman. It is not my size, but I think it should fit you, sir. Please, by all means, try it on."

A new hat always has a strange feel, but one can generally tell when the mark is near to being hit. It was stiff and heavier than the one lost, but it was an excellent fit. The Doctor had pointed him to a mirror where he was able to take a look at himself. Frederick felt odd taking what appeared to be such an expensive article. But they both knew it did not fit the doctor and he did need something for covering. "If you are sure that you do not wish to keep it," he said.

"No, no! Take it. Victoria complained about me always keeping things that were of no use. I shall be glad to know it is being put to some good. I hope it will help to make up for . . . what did you call it? Our 'misadventure'," said the Doctor.

The clock rang out eight o'clock. Frederick knew he had missed supper at Edward's. Being late as it was, and seeing that the Doctor looked in need of company ; taking one more look at himself in the mirror, he removed the hat. "If you would not mind, I think I would like to change my mind and stay to supper."

Dr. Abernathy's face brightened and he said, "Of course, Captain. I shall just alert Mrs. Dalton and we will be seated presently." He left Frederick to muse about why he had done this. Knowing Catherine's penchant for worry on his account, he felt a little guilty. But, he had heard Edward tell her before that he was a grown man and that he was well able to care for himself. Though, the latter half of that statement was still not something of which he himself was convinced.

During the course of the meal, Frederick was enlightened as to the circumstances of the doctor's marriage and all the twists and turns of his family heritage. There were many high alliances and advantageous affiliations. None of which seemed to be without some sort of treachery or outright betrayal involved. The entire family seemed to have little regard for matrimony and the vows incumbent upon the partners. Abernathy's own parents had not lived more than three years under the same roof. His disastrous marriage aside, Frederick was not surprised to have found the Doctor pie-eyed.

Normally, a doctor is not much of a prize in the matrimonial gambit, but one from a family such as the Abernathy's was an exception. Dispite his occupation, his name opened doors and brought welcome from many who would otherwise be socially unreachable. Victoria Bellamy knew this and was willing to endure a rather philanthropic man in exchange for the social standing of his family. She was not an adventuress, merely a practical girl, looking down the road to her future. Michael Abernathy was well-looking, mannered and amiable. The added attraction was his being absolutely bewitched by the preceived charms of Miss Bellamy.

They had met when she was seventeen, by eighteen they were engaged and by nineteen she was the mistress of a London townhouse of a good address. Her ultimate hopes were that the Doctor would give up the healing arts and occupy himself as the rest of the family--traveling, visiting and being notable. When Abernathy proved to be of a different stripe from the rest, his unremarkable marriage began to decline. The final blow had been two years previous when they had come to Crown Hill. The prospects in the area are fine, but the society, in contrast, is lacking. Mrs. Abernathy had not been stinting in her reproach and derision of the local populace. As her husband had attempted to minister to the needs of the locals, his wife had grown cold and distant. To her death, she had made her contempt of his vocation clear.

Frederick had, at times, thought his family was--unconventional. The circumstances that had brought Edward back from Barbados to raise him were at best unusual, but in comparison with Dr. Abernathy, the Wentworth family was rather mundane and hardly worth a second look. At this juncture, all he could do was be thankful that dinner and the narrative were finished. The dinner itself had been well laid and delicious. Mrs. Dalton was an excellent cook and not slack when it came to encouraging them both to have just a bit more. Both left the table entirely satisfied. Repairing to the sitting room, the Doctor began to offer him a brandy, when he realised that it was brandy which had begun this whole evening.

"I suppose it would be rather stupid of me to offer you spirits considering what happened earlier? What about keeping ourselves strictly to the coming tea? That seems to be safe--so far," he said laughing a bit.

"Yes. I would say that staying away from anything stronger is our best tack," Frederick responded.

Sitting down before the fire, Dr. Abernathy looked thoughtful for a time. He turned to Frederick and began, "I would like you to know that my wife was not a heartless woman. She did not love me, but I do not think it was from spite or any such thing. As far as I am aware, there was no one else in her heart. Perhaps it was just not in her to love at all, I do not know." He rose and walked to the portrait. Gently touching the frame, he continued, "When we first married, all seemed to be well. Then, almost imperceptibly at first . . . ,"

It was as if the entire room was pulled away from Frederick, or he was pulled from it. Which it was, he was not certain. These were the very words that Edward had used when describing how Frederick and Louisa would undoubtedly come to hate one another. With brilliant clarity, he could see that the Abernathy's had already played out his future. The roles were of course reversed. He being the one who could not love and Louisa would take the part of the married, but unrequited lover. Perhaps he was flattering himself that Louisa would be so anguished about his lack of love. If she were truly 'mulish' as the Doctor had described her, anger and resentment were conceivably the avenues her emotions could take. Either possibility was unsupportable when compared with the only marriages he knew intimately, these being his siblings' and the Harvilles'. It was proving to be a genuine trial as to how often his older brother was right.

" . . . so you see, Captain, hatred had not begun with us, it merely joined along the way. Are you well? I do not like the pallor you have taken on. Perhaps you do need something stronger," Dr. Abernathy said earnestly. Moving toward the table with the spirits, Frederick stopped him and said, "No. Doctor, I am perfectly well. I merely had a brief wave of tiredness. Perhaps this is my signal to be on my way," he said scrambling for an excuse. He listen intently for a moment. The wind had died or at least calmed temporarily. "The wind is at rest for the moment and I believe I shall take this opportunity to make my way off." He extended his hand to the doctor. "Thank you for dinner, and the fine hat. Both are much appreciated." While Frederick had talked, they moved to the door, where he had begun to don his outer garments. Before releasing Abernathy's hand, he said, " A man does not cease to love directly, it takes time. There is no foolishness in your regard for your wife. But there would be much foolishness in returning to the bridge." He released the doctor's hand. He felt odd saying such an intimate thing to a near stranger, but he knew the Doctor was in need of it.

Dr. Abernathy caught Frederick by the arm. Holding back for a moment, he said, "Captain, please take this." From his coat pocket, he took the bottle which had caused his fall in the first place. Holding it out to him, Frederick could see it to be a nearly full pint of brandy. "This is my particular poison and what is left of my--reserves. Nothing else tempts me to excess. I would appreciate you removing it from me," he said slowly, giving the bottle up. "Could you also tell your brother that I shall be to visit again very soon?"

Frederick put the bottle in his pocket. "Of course, I shall give Edward the message. As to my horse ... ?"

"Oh! Go 'round the back and I shall send Mr. Dalton to bring him out for you. I had my man put him inside when I ordered dinner. Thank you again--for everything, Captain." The Doctor clapped him on the arm as he went out the door.

As Frederick flexed his hands to fit his gloves, he mused that what had begun as a head-clearing ride out, had ended with precisely that effect.

Edward's evening, while not mind clearing was at least enlightening. After being told by Joshua of his courtship with Mrs. Lowell and of the forthcoming marriage, he had an unexpected opportunity to speak with Jonathan Mayhew-Jones, Esq.

After speaking at some length of details owing to his joining with the widow, Joshua and Edward began the process of saying good-bye. Concurrently, the attorney was just finishing the gathering and ordering of all the documents he had brought for Joshua's perusal. Both men were putting on coats and hats to leave when a particularly hard gust of wind broadsided the house. They all were still, listening to the fierceness of the blow. "When I brought my man in, I noticed you are in a gig, Reverend. Please allow me to offer you a ride to your home. That wind is ferocious, I do not wish to think of you exposed to it," said the lawyer.

Edward was about to refuse, thinking that his exposure would be no more than Mayhew-Jones' own driver, but a look from Joshua made him know that it was expected he would go along. "Thank you, Sir. I would be much obliged to you and your kindness. The winds this time of year are rather unpredictable and, as you see, extrordinarily strong. I think though, more than myself, my wife will be grateful to you. She worries at times," Edward said politely.

With all the leave-taking rituals accomplished, Edward's horse and rig secured to the carriage, the journey to the Rectory could begin. Much of the trip would be due west, heading into the wind. While this would slow things considerably, the risk of overturning was greatly reduced.

Mr. Mayhew-Jones broke the silence, "Undoubtedly you realise that Joshua wanted you to accept my offer of transport. He is anxious that you understand this rather . . . anomalous arrangement."

"I think I understand it all very well. Joshua is a man. He was in want of more than the company of his rector twice a month. My only concern is that an advantage is not taken. But I suppose that is why you are in his employ," Edward said. "Joshua said Mrs. Lowell was not penniless when she left her lighthouse, I hope that precludes her being a . . . " Edward searched for a word.

"Perhaps the words "fortune hunter" might do? No, as usual Joshua has understated things a might. Mr. Lowell was the patent holder on several inventions and left his wife a small fortune." The solicitor laughted a bit, "In fact, her attorney was quite pointed in his objections to the entire scheme, until he was apprised of of Mr. Junkins . . . wherewithal. At that juncture, Reverend, our Joshua became quite a welcome suitor."

"I am surprised to know that he is well off. He shows nothing of it. Here I spent nights wondering what would happen to him in the event of a sickness or he were to be injured," said Edward, feeling somewhat foolish that he had taken so much upon himself concerning Joshua.

"I dare say that it is that very trait which Joshua sensed in you which convinced him that you would be a trustworthy friend. In my line, I see too little of that sentiment. Do not disparage yourself about it. As for his lack of show, to be honest, he was very afraid. He knew that much of his safety came from the fact that people were afraid of the recluse. It afforded him cover." Mayhew-Jones shifted in his seat. "Are we close yet?" he asked Edward.

Edward glanced out the window and could see that they were still some distance from the Rectory. It was fortunate that The Dove and Quail Inn was only a quarter mile from home. The carriage would not need to go much out of its way for him. "Not really, another mile and a half, mile and three-quarter I would reckon. Joshua mentioned something about a formal meeting between he and Mrs. Lowell. The subject was never returned to and I wonder that you may know what he meant by it?" said Edward curiously.

"Though their entire courtship has stretched, even I dare say, contravened, all notions of propriety ; it would be highly inappropriate for Mrs. Lowell to bring herself to Joshua's home before any vows are taken, she will, by necessity, stay at the inn; rather than he coming and seeing her for the first time in so public a setting, they would appreciate if you would arrange a place and time where they could come together in a more intimate manner. He thought that you could possibly bring her to your home where he would await her arrival."

"Speaking of her arrival, when is she due in country?"

"She was to leave Boston on December second and should arrive in Bristol at any time. Her arrival will of course depend upon the seas. I have had no word as yet. She had a letter of introduction to a family in Kingswood where she will stay for a day or so to collect herself and then two days to Crown Hill. She will send word of her departure from Bristol. I will notify you and you can begin the task of calming the groom-to-be's nerves. They wish to marry within the week of her arriving," Mr. Mayhew-Jones delivery was indeed that which an attorney should possess, precise and to the point.

"He has thought all of this through very clearly, has he not? I shall speak to Mrs. Wentworth and have things taken care of. If I may, were you surprised when all of this began to form?" Edward asked, trying not to pry. The carriage lights did not afford a good amount of illumintion so Edward was at a disadvantage, he preferred to see the face of the person with whom he was engaged in conversation. He saw glimpses of the man's face, but not enough to ascertain anything personal about him.

"As a matter-of-fact, no. Reverend Wentworth, I, like you, am in a business which has me dealing intimately with people, and so am made privy to knowledge of behavior which has long ago ceased to astonish. I am afraid I have become rather cynical. When Joshua wrote to me and told that he was contemplating marriage, I too was concerned that he was possibly the object of some chicanery, but the further I delved into Mrs. Lowell's background, the more convinced I became that Joshua had come upon a good woman, who was willing to overlook his outward appearance and take the man within. I am not a sentimentalist by nature, but I do find this very touching." Again, precise delivery, but Edward could see in the bit of light, a delighted smile.

As Edward learned more of Joshua's future and Frederick saw a glimpse of his own; Catherine contemplated what to do with the information so graciously provided by Sophy.

Now for the most unpleasant portion of this missive. What of that rapscallion Frederick? I am quite put out with him and do not mind you telling him so in my stead. We have heard not one word from him since he came to Kellynch Hall, in person, at the end of November! Catherine, what do you think of a man, over thirty, who is not able to put pen to paper and inform his family and others close to him as to his whereabouts? I hope you will not take offence at my using you as a messenger my dearest Sister, but please tell Frederick that Mrs. Musgrove has enquired as to when he expects to return to Uppercross. They are anxious to announce things between Miss Louisa and himself as official. While I had hoped this attachment would wane, it is obviously strong enough to warrant preparations. They are concerned that he has made himself so little seen in Lyme, but Mrs. Musgrove owes it to Frederick's sensibilities being aggrieved by her daughter's accident. She wishes him to know Miss Musgrove has made amazing progress. The surgeon does not feel there is permanent damage. I have been told that there are no abilities which have been lost. Frederick must make himself known soon, or there may be harsh words coming his way.

Catherine read the ending of the letter for a third time, trying to reconcile what she thought she knew of Frederick's feelings and what Sophy wrote concerning Miss Musgrove and making the engagement official. She of all people was aware that, now and again, people desire declarations where none are intended.

She stood and walked to the window. Raising the lace panel, she looked out. The darkening of the sky was nearly complete and a rising wind shook the plane trees near the carriageway. There was a bright moon just beginning to climb. Catherine had lit only one candle, the darkness of the room intensifying the scene outside the window and the feelings in her heart.

Oh God, let me not find he has done such a thing as Laurence. I wish this to be a misapprehension on the part of the girl and her family. If only men understood.

The panel dropped and she turned, leaning against the wall. Perhaps she was not so concerned with Frederick or his situations. Perchance, this was concerning her. While she was charmed with the idea of his constancy to a lost love, she also was sensible to the expectations of Miss Musgrove and her family. If this girl was living on promises assumed by his actions, if she was looking to a future with Frederick and planning such, she knew the heartbreak if he failed her.

A chill came to her and she went to the chest and took out her heaviest woolen shawl. Placing it about her shoulders, she turned and blew out the candle.

The table was laid and dinner was keeping in the kitchen, all awaiting Edward's arrival. Thinking of him driving through the keening wind made Catherine nervous. She frequented the front windows of the sitting room to watch for him on the carriageway. The clock sounded seven o'clock. He will be home soon, I know it. To occupy herself, she rearranged the bric-a-bracs on the mantelshelf. Taking the key, she wound the eight-day-clock. Replacing it, she turned and looked about the room, pondering what else she might do to keep herself busy.

A clattering in front of the house roused her. Moving quickly toward the window, she spied a fine carriage with Edward's gig in tow. Her first thought was that he had been hurt and was being brought to her by some passing stranger. She hurriedly left the sitting room, to the kitchen and the rear door.

Lighting a lantern, she opened the door and stepped out. The cold and harshness of the wind made her draw a breath. Looking around the yard, she could see Edward untying the reins of the horse. Thank God, there was no harm to him. Freeing them, he gave the carriage two sharp blows to send the driver on. He began to lead the horse to the stable when he caught sight of Catherine. "What are you doing out here? I will be in presently," he said as he turned, continuing on. Catherine followed, wanting to know why he had come home in a carriage.

She came and stood next to him as he unhitched the gig. "Go back in the house, Catherine. I will come as soon as I am finished! Now go!" he shouted. "Are you all right? Why the carriage?" she asked, trying to be heard over the wind. Seeing that she was not going back to the house, he handed her the reins as he pulled the gig into the space and then came back for the horse.

Bringing the horse to the stalls, he saw that Frederick was still away. This bothered him somewhat, but it bothered him more that Catherine had insisted upon following to the stable. Removing his gloves to loose the harness and bridle, he unbuttoned his coat. Removing it he approached his wife and placed it about her shoulders. "If you insist upon staying, put these on," he said handing her the gloves."You should be in the house, it is freezing out here." He worked quickly, stripping the tack and feeding the horse. "I suppose you were worried because of the wind?"

"Yes! I thought that you had been hurt and someone had found you along the road. How did you come to be riding in such a fine carriage? I did not recognise it from the area," she said curiously. She pulled the coat closer to her. Even with it and the gloves she was chilled. She watched with some guilt as Edward worked with only his suit coat for warmth.

Edward chose not to answer her questions of the carriage and turned toward the subject of Joshua. "I have some interesting news about Mr. Junkins and as soon as we can get down to supper, I shall tell of it, not before." Taking the lantern from its peg, he came to Catherine and looked at her, "I am sorry you were worried." He bent and kissed her gently. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he drew her close as they went back into the wind.

After coming in the back door and closing it against the cold, Edward blew out the lantern, hung it and took his coat from Catherine's shoulders. "You should have come in. A shawl will not stand up to that cold for long." Hanging the coat on a peg, he caught her around her waist. "Come here. I wish to see that you are all right. No chilblains or such." He took her hand in his and examined it, then the other. She smiled at all this. Edward was in a droll mood and when these happened, he was like a child. Dropping her hands, he took her face in his hands and turned it from one side to the other. "I believe you are fine." Smiling at her, he leaned forward and kissed her again.

"A-hem . . . supper is ready to be served, Reverend." Mrs. Graham stood with a spoon in one hand and a pot of turnips in the other. She did not look amused that her kitchen was being used in such a intimate manner. He spied Catherine's face, she was embarrassed. "Thank you, Mrs. Graham. Please, uh . . . finish, we shall be in momentarily." The housekeeper took up a bowl and left, presumably to the dining room. "I am sure that she thinks me to be a hedonist," said Edward with a lifted eyebrow.

"I am sure that she does not think such a thing. I dare say she is merely embarrassed when you are so open with your affectionate displays. I must say, so am I."

"I am sorry, my dear. I was overcome by . . . the beauty of my wife," Edward said with an outrageous charm he seemed to reserve for these odd fits of humour. Catherine smiled despite herself, she knew it was the cast of his mind speaking, but it was lovely to hear nonetheless.

"Ah!. . . I have made you blush, Mrs. Wentworth! Come, I said I would not talk of my news until we were at table and so . . . we must go!" He began to quickly walk to the dining room. He had taken her arm and so she too walked quickly.

Entering the room, he seated Catherine and made a show of opening and placing her napkin. "Madam, your wish is my command. What of this lovely repast would you care for me to serve upon your plate?"

Looking up at him she said, "Sir, I care for you to be seated and tell the news which has you in such high spirits. Curiosity is the only appetite I have at the moment."

Edward gave her a small nod of the head and headed to his chair. Seating himself, with a flourish he placed his napkin and began to fill his plate. "I am very hungry tonight . . . must be the wind," he said, deliberately teasing her with his evasions. He filled his water glass and took a drink. Catherine watched him patiently, knowing that a protest would bring more elusiveness. "Well . . . I may as well tell you since I see you have taken on your 'patient wife' demeanor and there will be no grousing. Who do you think I saw at Joshua's?" he asked, looking at her as he buttered his bread.

This will be simple and not terribly exciting, Catherine thought. "Well, since Frederick is the only other person he has allowed to his home, I would say, your brother."

"Since your answer is Frederick, I must inform you--you are wrong. I encountered his lawyer." He looked at her, waiting for reaction.

"What would Joshua Junkins need with a lawyer?" Teasingly, she said, "Do not tell me, he is actually very rich!"

"You have very nearly ruined my surprise. While I do not think he is very rich, he certainly lives a simple life by choice, not out of necessity." Edward took the opportunity to take a few bites of his dinner while Catherine puzzled this information.

"He has more than just his horse and a few chickens?" She laughed at the irony. "Well! He has had quite a joke on all of Crown Hill. I am amazed that he has been able to do all that with his rock and red hanky."

"But there is more. That intelligence would be enough to keep tongues moving for months, but it is not the last of things," Edward said, trying to tantalise her with more.

She knew what he was up to. "You may keep it to yourself. I shall not beg," she said looking at him with mock defiance. Cutting her meat, she watched him with a smile. She could manoeuvre in this, she knew he would be as anxious to tell as she was to hear.

He watched her a moment as he chewed. She has won this. He smiled. This is the price Edward when you marry a girl with twice your mind. "I shall not make you beg. Joshua has been corresponding with a woman in America, and she has agreed to be his wife." Though she had not asked for the information, her look of surprise more than made up for any lose of advantage Edward may have felt.

Edward began to tell of Beatrice Lowell and Jonathan Mayhew-Jones, Esq. and how the impending marriage of Joshua Junkins came about.

"So . . . Mrs. Beatrice Lowell shall be arriving within days most likely," Edward said taking a drink. He was nearly finished with his dinner and through it all he had been answering Catherine's questions as well as possible. "She will come through Bristol. Hopefully the channel will be cooperative. It is treacherous this time of the year," he said using his knife for emphasis. "Croft and Sophy nearly lost themselves to her a few years ago." Wiping his mouth and placing the napkin on the table, he leaned back in his chair and directed all his attention to her. "Speaking of them, what did my sister have to say? Whatever it was, there was quite a lot of it--six pages worth!"

Catherine gathered their plates and silver, rising she took them to the credenza. "Actually, it was only five. Well, she first disparaged your letter writing abilities. Hence, the letter was to me. I think she is giving me an audience for the position." Trading the plates for two dishes of compote, she brought them to the table and sat. "She congratulated us on the baby. She wishes to see how well you will manage and the Admiral is anxious play doting uncle. The rest was mostly local news." At the mention of local news, Edward looked at her expectantly. He was concerned that his sister may have let go more than he thought necessary.

"So, who is doing what in the environs of Kellynch?" he asked cautiously.

"She said that Lady Russell and Miss Elliot have quit to Bath. They themselves will be departing for the same in a few weeks--the Admiral's gout." Catherine looked up from her compote and observed Edward. "She said he is suffering greatly, she asked that you pray for him." Edward looked surprised. "Also, she said that the Musgroves are asking as to Frederick's plans. They are expecting him to come and make things between him and their daughter official. Why did you keep this from me?" she asked looking at him steadily as she pushed the compote about.

Edward scratched his forehead, hoping to cause a brilliant thought to come. None did. "I did not tell you because when I told of Anne Elliot, I did not know all the facts about Miss Musgrove. Once I did, it did not seem to be a subject to which you needed be made privy. Moreover, Frederick and I are at odds as to what course he should take." He took a bite and put down the spoon. Placing his napkin beside, he again leaned back in his chair. He was unsure as to what he should say next. Catherine made it simple by asking, "He is reluctant?"

Edward laughed and began, "Hardly! He is determined to ask her to marry him as soon as she is home." He was watching for Catherine's reaction, since she seemed, in their past conversations to feel a partiality toward Anne and Frederick. But what he was seeing bespoke something more complicated. "I, on the other hand, feel that it would be a disaster and have said as much. So you see, he and I are quite opposites in this."

"If he has made promises to this girl, either in words or by his actions, he should make good. Though another part of me wishes him and Miss Elliot to be happy together." She looked at Edward and smiled, "Since it cannot be both ways, I suppose I must chuse a camp. You do understand how I can feel sympathy in both directions, can you not?" she asked.

"Certainly. It is only natural that you would be sensitive to Miss Musgrove. Though I think your situations to be very dissimilar." He rose and poured them each coffee. Bringing it to her, he took the seat to her right. "Your relationship with Mr. Darby was one of mutual affection and regard--Frederick has said there was no such thing with Miss Musgrove. Other than being imprudent as to his attentions in public and making himself quite intimate with her family, there has been nothing that I would deem remedied only by a marriage."

"If that is all that he has done, why is he of the opinion he must marry the lady? Surely he is not so sensitive to society that he would decide this."

"No, he said he became aware of the opinion of a friend in Lyme. The fellow and his wife both thought that Frederick and the girl were engaged by their mutual behavior. When he realized that a close friend came to this opinion, he began to contemplate that her family and possibly the girl herself saw him as honour bound. But, by this time, Miss Musgrove had had her accident and that made the thought of their attachment more . . . tragically romantic." He took a drink of his coffee and watched as the steam rose. The vapour rose and disappeared. It reminded him that he wished to speak to Catherine concerning Laurence Darby.

"Speaking of tragically romantic, I came to thinking of you and Mr. Darby today as I rode to Joshua's."

"What would bring that to your mind?" Catherine asked curiously. She did not think Edward to be the type of man who would become jealous of an old romance, especially one which ended in such an unsatisfactory way.

"I do not know. Perhaps I am bothered by the legacy which Mr. Darby left," he said with an air of perplexity.

Catherine smiled. Only her darling husband would actually put his mind to something so philosophic as to the legacy left by his wife's long dead lover. "And pray, what exactly is the legacy which Laurence left? Please enlighten me."

Setting the cup in its saucer, he took her hand. "Mr. Darby, for all the good qualities he must have possessed, left you thinking that he was a bit of a bounder." She began to protest. Edward touched a finger to her lips, "S-h-h-h . . .Listen a little before you try to correct my ideas. They are just some idle thoughts pieced together that may give you something to contemplate." He looked at her, studying her features. The thought again came to him how thankful he was that Mr. Darby had never made her his wife. Remembering he was in the midst of conversation, he pulled himself back to his speculations. "I suppose I do not wish that one of my sex should leave such a disappointing legacy. I dare say that men are most capable of doing that with intention, so when I see, what I believe to be a misapprehension of a man, I wish to amend it."

"Go on. I shall not interrupt." Catherine wanted to hear what had come to Edward on this matter.

"I know that you are of the mind that if he had truly loved you, he would have done the deed and there would not be any waiting for a proposal, true?" She nodded. "I feel I must enlighten you to men of four and twenty--he was only four and twenty, was he not?"

"Yes, just by three months."

"Well, having once--long ago, been a man of four and twenty, I know them to be very negligent where the future is concerned. There is very little thought given to time . . . it is a commodity of which they have no lack." He took her other hand so that both were now captured. "Laurence Darby thought he had all the time in the world to make an offer for your hand. Had he lived, I am quite sure that one fine summer day, he would have taken you on a picnic and suddenly turned . . . looking into those beautiful grey eyes and asked you to be his wife. That is how men of four and twenty do things." Looking at her hand, he stroked his ring on her finger and glanced at her, smiling. "Men of six and forty lay awake nights . . . contemplating the question and then . . . having made the decision, stammer and stumble through the proposal--the very next day, so they do not lose heart." He looked in her eyes, "Catherine, he meant to ask. He was just seduced by his own vitality. He did not think his equipment would fail that day . . . he intended to return to Glencoe in a few days and go on that picnic with you. It was not you, it was the vagary of youth."

Catherine smiled."Why is this important for you to say now?"

Straightening a bit, he looked past her and said, "As Laurence Darby found, we are as grass, we spring up one day, have our full youth and then are gone." Changing his gaze to her eyes, he continued, "I do not wish that you would carry any doubt as to your . . . desirability. He wanted you as a wife, he just waited too long." He kissed her hands one at a time, then just sat, gazing at them.

Catherine watched him as she did indeed contemplate his ideas. The words about Laurence were sweet, though they were as much speculation as her own conclusions. There was no pain to alleviate in all this, but she was touched that he would even put his mind to a topic, to which she knew most men would be indifferent. A topic to which some would be quite hostile. He never ceased to amaze her with his disposition.

He looked up with a thoughtful expression. "Lest you think me terribly gallant, I must tell you, much of my thinking comes from a selfish motivation. Do you wish to hear of my self-centredness?"

"Of course, sir. I have been quite enlightened with what you have said to this point. I have no doubt that the rest will be equally . . . illuminating," she said expecting an interesting discourse.

"From the time I learned of your relationship with Mr. Darby, and then particularly this afternoon, it has come to my mind that . . . had you been his wife when he fell from the bridge, you would have been a wealthy woman with connexions to a powerful family." The hold on her hands tightened as he continued. " Women in those circumstances are not allowed to be in society with poor country curates as myself. I dare say, that you and I would be in very different places tonight if that had been the case." They watched one another for a time, both knew this was not speculation. Had she ever become a Darby, there would not be a Catherine Wentworth. They both saw the hand of Providence in their lives. Edward roused himself for a second time that evening. "Since his name has come up, I cannot help but be thankful to God that you were never his wife. I am very selfish, you see that, do you not?"

She looked at him in wonderment. "Edward Wentworth, I am amazed that you managed to keep yourself from the altar for all those years."

He laughed, "What has that to do with what I just said?"

"As a man who is able to speak with such eloquence and feeling, you must surely have broken hearts in each parish you served. Such prose are irresistible to most of my sex," she said smiling at him.

He laughed, kissing her hand again. "You are quite wrong my dear. Women are not much interested in the man who keeps the records and clears away the prayer books. But the thought is charming nonetheless." He stood, pulling her up to him. "I think you need to rest, it is nearly . . . ten o'clock." He looked into her eyes and said, "I would normally kiss you, but since you have expressed a recent . . . shyness, I shall refrain."

"Thank you for your noble conduct, sir," she said as she looked around him in a furtive manner. In a low voice she continued, "She will not come to clear until called. I think we may be safe."

As Edward leaned closer to kiss her, he said, "I certainly hope so."

Catherine was not quite certain whether this was all so pleasurable because of Edward's lovely speech or because of the somewhat . . . illicit locale. Perhaps it was . . .

"A-hem . . . Edward."

Both opened their eyes and looked at one another. Catherine with alarm, Edward with the look of a man thwarted. They ended the kiss, but stood still, contemplating what to do next.

"That was not Mrs. Graham, Edward," she said with a tightness in her voice.

Edward grimaced and pursed his lips, "No. No, that was not Mrs. Graham. I believe that was my brother," he said loudly. Releasing her, Edward turned and walked to the door. Leaning around the jamb, he glared at someone on the other side of the wall. "It is my spying, younger brother to be exact."

Coming around the corner, Edward cuffed Frederick on the arm, while his brother laughed. "What do you mean, sneaking about like this?" A smile on his face belied the anger he was trying to put on. "Now Catherine is mortified and I shall never be allowed to touch her outside our rooms again," he said in a low voice. They leaned against the wall together. Frederick said, "Being the gentleman that I am, I shall retire to the study . This should allow Catherine to exit honourably." His countenance changed from that of a smile to one of seriousness, "We do need to talk. It is about Dr. Abernathy."

Edward frowned. "All right. I shall be with you presently." He turned to enter the dining room. Glancing back at Frederick with a smile and pointed finger, he said, "I shall repay." With that he disappeared.

Frederick went to the study and built a fire. As the larger pieces began to catch, he thought about his decision concerning Louisa Musgrove. In the short term, he was in many ways worse off than he had been. His former plan had been to await word of the lady's repairing home. Then he would himself go to Uppercross and commit to the marriage. Other than her return home, there would be no waiting. With this new resolve came having to bide his time and ascertain whether or not he was even under an obligation. There was no sense in making a fool of himself if there were no expectations of him. He determined to use his friendship with Harville in this. While Harville and his wife knew he was not engaged to Louisa, Frederick had never bluntly denied an attachment. This he would do by the next letter and inquire as to any impressions as to her feelings in his direction. The last letter did not hold much hope--Louisa's going home where plans were to be made.

Putting the last piece of wood on the fire, Frederick rubbed his hands together, brushing off the dust. Settling himself on the hearthrug, he drew his knees up and rested his arms upon them. The fire sparked as pockets of sap would burst and sizzled. The constant movement of the flame was diverting and kept his mind from settling on any one thing for too long. Until he came to his favorite object. She would be in Bath by now, unless the plan had somehow been changed. She did not like Bath. Remembering that she was sent to school there after her mother died, his highest hope was she could find activities to distract from the memories of her mother. He thought it strange that he would remember so much of her from their first engagement. He had thought most of these things quite gone from his mind. You are lying to yourself again, Frederick. You took her to task so often, there was no means of forgetting. No wonder he remembered so much. The clacking of the door knob roused him from his reverie.

"Well, now that I have smoothed things with my wife, you and I can talk. If Catherine does not look to you for the time being, do not take it too much to heart. That was the second time I had embarrassed her with my . . . overzealousness," he said, dropping into the chair behind Frederick. "I am finding I have a tendency to imprudence. It seems to be a family trait." He reached out with his foot and bumped his brother's arm. "That was a joke."

Frederick straightened and mockingly put his hand over his heart, "Oh! You wound me deeply, brother. You know me too well." He resumed his former posture. As he stared again into the fire, he said, "I have come to a decision about my imprudence. Would you care to hear it?"

"Of course. Though remember, my lot lately seems to be that of detractor when it comes to all your decisions. So be forewarned," he said with a laugh.

"Duly noted. I have decided that you are right. I cannot marry Louisa without, at least attempting to disengage myself from her. I will make every fair effort in dissuading she and her family , but if Mr. Musgrove should absolutely demand my honouring her, I think it would only be just." He turned to look at Edward. "You see that, do you not?"

Leaning forward, Edward grasped Frederick by the shoulders. "I see that. I just do not wish you to throw yourself into this without looking. Just be quite certain you have absolutely-no-choice." He punctuated each word by a nudge to his shoulders. With a tone of jest he said, "Force him to arms before you submit." Edward patted his arm as he rose. "Would you care for a drink?"

Remembering the doctor's brandy he said, "I think this may be more to your liking." Taking the bottle from his pocket, he held it up for Edward to examine.

Edward glanced toward his brother and the bottle, suddenly he recognised the familiar label. It had not changed in all these years. Heart of The Lion, the finest French brandy known to man. Walking over, he took the bottle and asked, "Where on earth did you get this?"

"Dr. Abernathy. He gave it to me."

Staring at the bottle, he suddenly recalled Frederick's saying he had something to impart, concerning the Doctor. "What did you wish me to know of our good friend?" He uncorked the bottle and breathed in the aroma of the liquor.

"I dined with him this evening." Frederick rose and came to Edward's side. He was somewhat amused at the way his brother was nearly mesmerised by the brandy.

"Oh. How did you come to be in his company in the first place? That is rather far from here."

"This afternoon, as I was about to begin to home, I found him on the bridge to Glencoe. He was staring into the water and I believe he was attempting to determine, at this time of year, which would occur first--drowning or freezing," Frederick said.

Edward looked from the bottle and sat it on the table. He walked away from Frederick and said, "I did not realise that he was that far off. He has made allusions to not being here long, but I assumed that he meant he would remove to town or perhaps another village. Not self harm." He stood with his arms crossed and berated himself for not seeing the truth.

"It should be comforting to know that he told me he would be coming to visit you soon. He had been drinking, that seems to be his particular poison," he said, pointing to the brandy. "He gave it to me so it would be gone from him. He is actually what brought me to my decision about Louisa."

Edward turned to Frederick and said, "Seeing the ravages of marital discord first hand, eh?"

"Yes, I saw myself very clearly in all he had to say. Was it as adversarial as he made it to seem?" He asked

"More so. Mrs. Abernathy did not like anyone or anything about this place or her husband. She was quite mean actually. I dislike speaking so of the dead, but she was angry and sullen with no desire of friendship." He returned to his chair. "Catherine called on her . . . twice. The second conversation only proved that the first time Mrs. Abernathy called her a busybody--she had not misheard the lady."

"I'm sure your wife was not pleased with that exchange," Frederick said, trying to imagine how Catherine might react to such an accusation.

"To say the least. Catherine did not go back a third time . . . but, at least she did try."

They were silent for a time. Edward was endeavoring to form arguments to present the Doctor against such an iniquitous act. Frederick decided that a drink of the brandy would be in order. Finding two tumblers amongst the glasses in the cabinet, he poured a nip for each. Taking the drink to his brother, he nudged his arm and said, "Here, you seem to have an affinity for this stuff, by the look of you."

Edward smiled as he took the glass. "Yes, I did. When I was in Barbados, I nearly lived on this. I would buy it by the crate." This was said in such an offhand manner that it surprised even Edward. The sting of the past was fading to nearly nothing. While it would never be a subject of idle conversation; with his brother at least, it could be alluded to without dread.

"By the crate! I do not partake often, but it costs a fortune now--just by the bottle."

"It cost a fortune then also." Edward turned to face Frederick. "Keeping hold of my money was not the object at the time, a good, long drunk was." Holding the glass at eye level, he continued, "And this, my boy, will do the job remarkably well. The hold over is no better than the cheapest grog, but the quality of the douse is . . . excellent." He lowered the glass and turned toward the fire. "The only thing better would be warming it. Though I do not think it will suffer much for not."

Frederick laughed softly. Looking at Edward with amusement, he asked, "What happened to the man who took such pains to preach temperance to me when I was a youth? And the rector who bludgeoned me with Hell fire when I was too frequently in the bottle a few years ago?" He walked to a chair and moved it closer to the fire. Stretching out his legs, he leaned back to await an answer. "Well, where is he?"

"He is right here. I suppose I am somewhat hypocritical." Dragging the other chair next to Frederick, he sat. "I believe you have proven that this is not your particular weakness." He held up the glass to indicate his meaning. "Let us drink a toast."

"And what shall we toast?"

"Well, I do not think toasting your decision not to marry Miss Musgrove would be appropriate, so I propose we toast Joshua Junkins becoming a husband." Edward waited for his brother's reaction to this statement.

Frederick sat forward in his chair and looked at Edward for a moment. "You did say, 'Joshua Junkins becoming a husband'? I am not going deaf, am I?"

"You heard perfectly. He is to be married," After a while for explanation, Edward lifted his glass in a toast. "Salute" He took a drink. The taste was exactly as he remembered. Though, there was none of the thrill that had accompanied it in the past. He supposed this was owing to the fact there was no desperate need to forget. This was just a quiet drink in his study with his brother. The quality of the brandy had not changed, but he certainly had.

"So . . . how is it? The same?" Frederick asked.

"The same taste, but a different man," he said quietly, looking at the glass. "Quite a different man."

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