Chapter 4

Captain Wentworth led his horse to the stables. The day's ride had done both he and his filly good. All his inward musings had caused too much inaction over the past days. Other than a long walk to the hills the second day, he had done nothing more strenuous than buy and read a book. The horse had done nothing more than devour grain and straw at an alarming rate. She had earned them today though. The ride had been over many hours and miles. She was ready to bed down and he was ready to spend a quiet night alone. "Take extra care with her, I may have pushed a little hard," he said, handing the stable boy extra for himself.

As he walked out of the stable, he began to think about his time in Plymouth. The first days were marked by violent emotions and rather melodramatic behaviors. He reddened slightly to think what imperturbable Harville would say, had he witnessed those displays. He had told Wentworth, before his quitting Lyme that he was allowing emotion to exaggerate things in his mind. He remembered spouting off about decency and some such blather. Not that he did not find himself in an untenable position about Miss Musgrove and his ever expanding realizations about Anne. These were all very real. It was how his feelings had seized hold and driven him along that was the rub. Now that he had been alone and free to face much of the past and all that came with it, he could look upon it with more sensibility.

Leaving the stable, he began to make his customary circuit back to the inn. While passing a shop selling leather goods, he thought he heard his name. This was surprising for in these past days he had seen not one familiar face among the crowds. He heard his name again, this time with his Christian name included. He turned and searched for the direction. "Wentworth, you blasted dog! Hold those long limbs still a moment whilst I catch you!" the unidentified voice cried.

He watched and waited. He could see that a rather short man was hastily making his way toward himself. As he drew closer, Wentworth recognised the face. It belonged to Henry T. Stanton. A man the Captain had hoped would be forever absent from him. Each muscle in his body tightened as snatches of his dealings with Stanton came rushing to him. In the course of the association with this man, he had very nearly lost his burgeoning career five years ago. Nearly lost Harville to the stocks and had compromised the truth more than once.

As Stanton bullied his way to Wentworth, he had upset the basket of a housemaid. Which would have been of little consequence, excepting it contained, what the captain hazard a guess was, a good eight to ten dozen eggs. This caused not a little scene as Stanton was trying to bluster his way out of responsibility for the mishap. The girl was almost prepared to believe it her mistake. Her walking down this particular street on this particular day, to be the reason and not Stanton's reckless dashing about. She was in tears and Wentworth could see the glint in Stanton's eye at having a soft face captive to his excessive harangue

Stepping forward, Captain Wentworth said, "Please, Miss, allow me to cover your loss. Take this and be on your way, I am sure your mistress is wondering where you have got off to . . . " his voice trailed away as he handed her some coins from his pocket. He knew by her brightened face it had been much more than the eggs were worth and that he had probably just furnished her with a new whatnot of one kind or another.

"Gallant Freddy Wentworth . . . still such a gentleman as usual," said Stanton. The mocking in his voice was as harsh and grating as ever. "You know Freddy, you may have just cost me an evenings' entertainment . . . I think I could have parleyed that little 'accident' into some fun," he said. "Why do you think I made way for her in the first place?" Stanton said in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone.

"Good God, Stanton! You actually knocked that poor girl about, causing her to blush and blubber in a public street, all for a possible pitch at her later. Mr. Stanton, your gallantry toward women has improved, somewhat, over the years," he said trying to keep the sarcasm and loathing in his voice at a manageable level.

Henry Stanton was one of the finest tacticians of the Crown. Most of his shortcomings were excused because of this Providential gift. Hence his ability to see and make for Wentworth whilst still planning an evenings' activities. Any captain desiring to gather prize and win battles wanted Henry Stanton on board. He had spent some time on the Laconia. Precious little time. After the incident in Gibraltar, and the removal of Stanton from his brig, his ship and his authority, the captain had been left to seriously contemplate the Navy, the war and anything of a moral nature that presented itself for weeks afterward.

"What brings you to Plymouth my fine friend," Stanton asked, with rather too much feigned interest.

"Nothing of consequence, just a respite to clear my mind. And you? Are you residing here now or just a visitor as myself," Wentworth asked hoping to receive the short rather than long reply.

"Just a visitor, seeing my sister and her brats. Had to come take the air to get away from the beggars. Have you ever noticed that, though they have small bodies they make more noise than they really have a right?" he said quite seriously.

"Well, children have an excuse. They have not lived as long as we and therefore are not as able to control themselves as adults should," he said, knowing that Stanton had precious little control himself. Henry would learn to fly before he saw the joke.

"Aye, quite true, there is nothing better than a man with his being 'under control'. That is why I have always admired you Freddy. Always keeping your insides wrapped up tight so as not to spill them about for all to see. I do admire that about you, even now." Stanton said with not a little sarcasm of his own. Perhaps he had gotten the joke after all.

They had begun walking in the direction of the captain's lodgings. He decided to change course. The last thing he needed or wanted was Stanton being able to find him anytime he chose. He saw a public room a few doors down and steered them into it. Inviting Stanton to take dinner with him, they got a table in the far back of the room. Wentworth wanted them to be well away from others in case Henry decided to get into mischief as he was wont to do.

Captain Wentworth was not the least bit sure as to why he had not merely chatted Stanton a moment or two in the street and then made excuses, leaving the odious man to his own pursuits. In the past five years, curiosity about Stanton's whereabouts and doings crossed Wentworth's mind occasionally, not from concerned curiosity, but out of self interest for him and his mates. This was a man not to be taken for granted. It struck him odd that as he had babbled to Harville concerning lack of decency in himself, he should now be faced with the one man in the world he knew to be completely devoid of the sentiment. He was sure Harville would see the irony could he view this pairing.

"So you're here to visit your sister. I did not know you had family in Plymouth. You never spoke of them," Wentworth said, trying to stay with innocuous topics. Food and drink being brought diverted attention from Stanton's answering for a moment, giving the captain time to order himself further. This man and just being with him demanded much control.

"Aye, she's a pitiable one. Three brats, no man. Oh, she had a husband, but he had the stupidity to get himself killed at Trafalgar. She was let well enough off, just that now, no man wants to take on brats as old as she's got. How 'bout you Freddy, do an old, beleaguered mate a favor and marry his somewhat handsome, sister. She's been without a man for years--as far as I know, and I'm sure someone such as yourself . . . a man 'under control' and all would be well helped along by her," he chuckled as he drained his glass.

Frederick Wentworth, was indeed a man under control, not only as Stanton had intimated, but in how he kept his desire to maim in check. To be truthful, Wentworth was shocked that this murderous and debauched excuse for chamber slop could have so maligned his own sister, her children, a dead man and himself all in one blow of wind. Moreover, he continued to call him Freddy. The last man to do that had not been a man but his brother, Edward. Freddy had been his favorite name for Frederick, but not Frederick's for himself, and so, the one having clopped the other on the head, the matter had been quite settled No more Freddy. Perhaps there was a clopping in order here, he mused. He had sat for what felt like ages marveling at this exchange, but knew that he must find words somewhere . . .

"I see that your talent for delicacy is as fine as ever Stanton," he said, as calmly as his anger would allow.

"Let us get to brass tacks Wentworth, you don't really like me do you?" Stanton said. His voice was low and tinged with a meanness the captain had heard, and seen before.

Trying to keep things from becoming ugly, Wentworth said with some laughter in his voice, "Now that I put my mind to it, no, I do not like you. I have never found anything in your person or character to like."

Stanton took this in, not that it could have been much a revelation to him. The captain could not imagine there were many who did like Henry. He was being extremely quiet and that did not bode will. He had not had much in the way of drink so there was a hope of ending this while it was still in the talking stage.

"You know what is wrong with you, Wentworth?" he growled.

At least he had not called him Freddy again. "No, I do not. But I have been receiving much insight about myself lately, so, please, enlighten me!" he said, knowing this would be diverting if nothing else.

"What is wrong with you and men like you . . . you and those other weak sister of yours, Harville and what was his name . . . Benwick, yea, booky James Benwick. What's wrong is, you're so set on being 'good' and 'honorable', you can't stand to see anybody have a good time, a little amusement. I think it makes your insides tighten to think that anybody ain' livin' life like you monks. What say you that," he almost spit the words at the captain.

After taking a drink and thinking carefully, the captain replied, "All I have to say to that is, you are free to your opinion about me, Harville or Benwick. As for being honorable, I plead guilty to living a life by that principle. As for good, that is for God to judge, I'm not very able." As he had said these things, he had been rising to leave. So that Stanton could have no doubt as to his last point, he leaned in as close to Henry's face as he could stomach . . .

"As for what you call 'a good time and amusement', it was brutality and murder. Had I allowed Harville a free hand, you and I would not be having this conversation, your sorry hide would be with the fish. Were it not for that 'honor' of mine that you seem to find foolish, you would be dead. Plain and simple. Do not forget that, Henry." He now stood and putting a smile on his face, extended his hand. "It has actually been an interesting evening . . . let us not repeat it any time soon," Wentworth said with false cheer. "I shall pay the keep on my way out."

Wentworth had kept all his anger at bay until reaching the inn. Safely installed in his room, he was able to sit and try to arrange all the things that had been said. The incident with Stanton had been one which had cost him nearly everything. What had taken place those few years ago, aside from his relationship with Anne, had done more to form his character than any other single event he could remember. He chose to put it from him. It would occupy more room in his thoughts than he could afford now. It was over and done. His meeting with Stanton while unpleasant, changed nothing.

He had, at least for a while, been diverted from his thoughts of Anne.

Chapter Five
Wentworth stepped into the stables taking pleasure in the sweet smells of hay and grain. Such a simple thing that gave so much ease of mind. His last ride would be pleasant as the weather was warm for November. The sun was brilliant and his mind clear of most troubling thoughts. Maybe the tide was beginning to turn for the captain's threadbare emotions.

Since his meeting with Stanton, he had come to the conclusion leaving Plymouth was in order. He had sent a post to Edward in Shropshire informing him of the plan. This would be his last opportunity to ride freely, without a destination in mind.

"Sir, a gentleman left this message earlier this morn. He gave me two shillings to ensure your gettin' it, sir, "said the stable boy, handing him the note.

"Well, then to reward such a prompt messenger, I shall match it and a half. Thank you, sir," the captain smiled, throwing the boy a mock salute.

His stomach tightened, for he was certain he knew from whom this came. As he opened the missive, he could discern the words Harville and Benwick. This caused not a little consternation and even some fear. Stanton was not a man that would try to continue contact with him after last night's meeting if there were not something he needed from Wentworth.

"Enjoyed the sup and the lovely company, Freddy. We must do it again. Today. Same place and time. If you are thinking about engaging yourself elsewhere, remember that Harville and Benwick had as much in this as you and me. Do come Freddy! Henry T. Stanton, Esq.."

Captain Wentworth crumpled the piece of paper in his pocket and shoved it in his pocket. "Stanton must have seen me depart here yesterday. So much for a quiet last day," he muttered. "I'll not be riding after all," he told the boy. " Sorry girl, no run today,"

He was unsure as to when he and Stanton had met yesterday. It would be best to arrive as soon as possible. Establishing his own position in the pub may give him the best advantage. Much like hunting with Musgrove. Excepting this was not birds, but a rather more dangerous beast.

Wentworth was just taking his first pull of the ale when he observed Stanton enter. "He has undoubtedly been watching my doings. This may be more serious than I imagined," he thought to himself. He rolled the ale about his mouth, hoping to look relaxed. Though that was quite impossible. Swallowing and setting the glass down, he looked up to see Stanton's approach. "Well, I see I am quite in time," the Captain said, nodding toward him.

"Aye, I thought you'd come as soon as you got the message. I knew that my company would be very tempting, but if that might not interest you, mentioning your fine friends just may," he said seating himself directly across from the captain.

"Stanton, you interrupted my plans for a ride this afternoon. I would much rather be taking in the counrtyside than sitting in this dark cave with your sorry self for company."

For having had time to compose himself, his opening remark had been more sharp than intended. He had hoped to give Stanton no reason for agitation. If it were only he, he would be willing to risk more, but he must step carefully for Harville and Benwick.

"Well I am rather hurt, Captain. I thought we could have the same good time as last night. No matter. After leaving you . . . or rather your leaving me, I began to think about Gibraltar. I have always resented the way I was hauled off the Laconia and put on that rat-trap The Pilot. Captain Churchill had no business commandin' a dinghy much less a frigate. I have begun to feel rather ill-used in the whole affair," Stanton said, with what Wentworth thought to be genuine offense.

At that moment he was glad to have just finished his ale for had he been in the midst of swallowing, he feared he would have watered Stanton as a garden. "You feel ill-used?" Wentworth cried warmly.

"Yea, I got cut from the Laconia to a ship far worse. You were so good to me, I was quite spoiled for other captains Freddy," Stanton mocked.

"I fail to see how your never even being accused of that girl's murder, your being taken from my custody and put on another ship to continue your career constitutes ill-use, Mr. Stanton," the captain said, gritting his teeth.

"Don' get so warm Captain, when put that way it does seem I got off rather lucky, don' it. What do you hear from Harville and Benwick? I'm sure pals such as you all keep in close contact," said Stanton, draining his glass.

Stanton being a tactician knew that surprising the enemy with a fast tack in the opposite direction was a winning manoeuvre. What Stanton did not know was that Captain Wentworth had thought about this very event occurring.

Not lately, but some time ago, he had made the a plan and only altered it to fit any changing times or places. Now was the time.

"Harville is dead. He took fever from gangrene. He had a leg wound two years ago that never healed properly. I was only in time to help put him in the ground. Then I opened my purse and helped send Mrs. Harville and their children to Bristol. I assume she is residing with her widowed mother as I was told was the plan," intoned the Captain. The lie had fallen from his tongue so easily. It had paid off to practice.

"Well, damn. Harville dead. I had always wanted to ask if when he took that shot at me, it was wide on purpose or was he just a shaky hand?" Stanton said watching Wentworth closely.

"I have not an idea on that. We never discussed it." Wentworth said watching Stanton just as intently. He knew that he must remain fixed in his countenance and his gaze if this plan were to succeed. Stanton was reading every line of his face and any movement of his eyes, looking for a flaw, looking to see a lie.

"So, what of Benwick? Last I had heard he was set to marry Harville's sister. That come off?" he asked. Still he watched. Still waiting for the thing that would tell him Wentworth was lying.

"No, Fanny Harville died in June. Benwick came off a twelve month in August. I had to tell him. His mind broke under the grief. There were times he was so damn silent I thought I was by myself. Last I knew, he had set out to London. He may be resting with the fishes at the bottom of the Thames for all I know," Wentworth again intoned.

Stanton looked away. He had bought the lie and was satisfied, or so the captain thought. "You know Frederick, I'm just not sure I can trust you. You may just have a more conivin' nature than anyone suspects. You live by principles, but how do I know that you won't go against 'em just to keep me from knowin' where them boys are?"

"You do not. I suppose that is a chance you take. Look, Stanton, these were my mates. Close ones at that. One is dead and the other has a broken mind. I am sure that if you want to go to Bristol and ask Harville's wife about him and how he died, you can do that. If you would care to head to town and search out Benwick, you are free to pursue that. It is all up to your timetable and your purse. As far as I can see, you and I are the only ones left of this sorry business and I for one want nothing more to do with it," Wentworth said as he rose to go.

"I think I'm satisfied Freddy. You've got a morose look to you now. That's the man I'll believe. But even if you are lyin' to me, I know it will plague you no end that you could pitch me a tale so well as to throw me off the scent. I'll pay for drinks this time," Stanton said in a light tone.

"My tab was paid before your arrival. Thank you any way," said the captain. Exiting the pub, he breathed deeply. The plan had been successful. But Stanton was right, it did plague him that he could lie so adroitly.

Chapter Six
It was fortunate that his plans were made and he would be off to Shropshire in a matter of hours. The long ride there and the lack of familiarity of surroundings may serve to occupy his mind in more profitable ways. Forgetting Stanton, and finding a way to reconcile Anne with what may come in Lyme. He needed the society of his rather severe and proper brother just now, but he would also need to prepare himself for that very society. Their last time together had been somewhat restrained. Certainly not unpleasant, merely stiff.

Though, Edward's life was now much changed. A parish of his own and a new wife. It was difficult imaging him married. Perhaps a wife has softened him. The few letters they had exchanged had given the impression that things were somehow, different. The thought of his brother giddy in love bemused him and made him anxious to see if it were possible, even a little.

All was prepared for morning. His trunk must go by post and was already away. His leaving Plymouth would be bittersweet. He had begun to understand much about himself here. Much that would help in the making of decisions that were surly in his future.

He lay on the bed and waited for sleep.

"No, stop that. You are hurting me. Go away! There is nothing for you here. Leave me be!"

Captain Wentworth was having a dream that had come frequently since the party from Uppercross had gone to Lyme. It was not an every night event, but one that did appear often enough to remember. The dream itself was not what disturbed him the most. It was the meaning he tried to glean from it that was the puzzle.

It was always the same. The setting was dim and indistinct. He was standing with his coat on and his hat in his hand, facing what little light there was to be had. The most troubling aspect of the dream was that Anne Elliot was featured prominently. And how she was presented confused and alarmed him. There was the figure he knew to be Anne, cowering on the floor behind him. At times he could hear her cry out, "Go away! There is nothing here for you! Leave me be!" At times her arms would wave at the air about her. There is another dark shape, with a rattling sound emanating from it. At times, the dream would last for some while, others, just short bits of sound or sight.

He would awaken from the dream in turmoil. Anne seemed so afraid and all he did was stand -- his back to her. He had decided, after much thought, that Anne was telling him she had nothing in herself any longer for him and to go away. To leave her be. When the dream had come the first time, his 'leaving her be' had not been so difficult to contemplate. He was still deep in his anger. As his knowledge of himself and how he truly felt about Anne came more to the fore, the dream had discouraged and angered him.

This morning, the dream was changing, becoming more focused and understandable. His appearance was the same, the coat, hat and facing the light. He could see Anne was more in a kneeling position than cowering. Perhaps she was not as afraid in this dream as he had feared. She would wave her arms and cry out, but her voice seemed more frustrated and agitated, not frightened. A dark figure looked to be a man in a chair waving a white flag or something very like it. The rattling sound was still there. The man seemed to be saying something but it was not clear and no one paid attention.

The dream was indeed taking a new tack. His dream figure turned his head, and looked toward Anne. Turning, he went to her. He saw himself bending, but not actually to her, but to a figure moving and writhing on her back. He takes the figure, lifts it to his face and says, "You're being very naughty, Walter. You must leave Miss Anne to tend your brother."

His eyes opened. Suddenly he was quite aware of where this came from. This was not a dream of rejection, merely an enactment of a simple homely event that he and Anne had taken part. He did not know whether he was relieved or more confused. He sat up in the bed and rubbed his face with his hands, hoping to drive the sleep from him.

As he sat, musing about this discovery. The very event the dream had used began to come to him. One morning after walking to Uppercross, Wentworth had been directed to the Cottage where Henrietta and Louisa had gone to check the progress of little Charles after a fall and see some treasure Mrs. Musgrove must show. He had entered the sitting-room to find himself squarely in the company of Anne Elliot. He could tell that her agitation was rivaled only by his own. They had exchanged courtesies, she informed him that the Miss Musgroves were upstairs and she expected would be down presently. He said that he hoped the boy was better. She simply smiled and had not elaborated as to any change. The only thing left to him was gazing out the window until the ladies appeared. Anne, in the act of caring for the boy, had to kneel by the couch he was lying upon. She continued in that way as he stood . . . with his back to her.

After some few moments, a stirring in the hall had drawn both their attentions to someone entering the room. It was Charles Hayter and the captain recognized his discomfited look at seeing him. It having been the same he had given Anne earlier. He had tried to be friendly, but that was not to be accepted. This had occurred before Charles was sure that Henrietta was indeed intended for him and he wanted nothing to do with Wentworth. He had taken up a newspaper, or white flag if you are dreaming, and proceeded to read.

At this juncture, the other Musgrove boy, Walter, had gotten someone to let him in the room from the other side. He was the younger of the two, but was stout and not a little demanding. The boy began to hector his brother but when Anne thwarted that plan, she became the hectored. He pulled at her hair a little and then her apron. He pushed her, all the while smiling a mischievous grin. "Go away, Walter. There is nothing for you to do here, so please let me be. Walter, stop that!" she had told him at times. Those were the words he had thought direct at him. Walter, not satisfied with picking and pulling at her decided that climbing was in order. He got on her back, clasped her neck with his chubby hands and defied all to act.

As this was going on, Charles Hayter had, at various times, tried to call Walter to himself. But no one listened. It had begun to annoy Wentworth that he did nothing but talk. This was obviously a child well used to ignoring others to get his own way, not unlike his name sake, the captain had thought. That was most likely the final notion which had propelled him to take action.

In three strides he had reached Anne, carefully removed Walter's hands from her and lifted him so they were face to face. The child had begun screaming with this action and he had had to speak rather loudly, to try cajoling him out of the fit. Anne tried thanking him, but he used Walter's screaming to pretend he had not heard. He had not listened to her but he had watched. She had remained kneeling before the couch, obviously composing herself. This was when the ladies from upstairs had appeared and Anne used this diversion to take her leave. She had been disheveled and upset. She had escaped.

Captain Wentworth was not a man who usually tried to change the past, but he could not help but wonder what that scene would have been if it were to take place now, not then. He knew there was danger in opening this. But as he closed his eyes, the scene set itself and now he was his own audience.

Instead of prattling with Mrs. Musgrove's spoiled youngest, little Walter would have been hoisted over to Cousin Charles. Let the curate move heaven and earth to stop the wailing. He kneels next to her and taking her by the shoulders raises her to face him full on. His arms go naturally round her waist, much as they had years ago. His hands caress the small of her back and bring her closer to him. Her arms find their way about his neck and then her hands comb through his hair. He is able to look in her eyes as long and as deeply as he chooses, to lose himself and his soul in them once again.

"Anne, when we parted, I set myself to putting you away from me forever. I thought I had. I instead have put that angry and resentful Frederick away. Take this new man who loves you more and better than the old one ever could," he says with hope.

She of course says yes, with much enthusiasm since this is his own conjuring. He then kisses her. Feeling first her mouth yielding to him, and then as her passion rises, quite equaling his own, he grazes a path along her neck with his lips. He reaches to loosen her hair. Each pin to find, a frustration and promise of something forbidden. As the last pin was removed, her hair falls. The feel of it on his hand inviting him to touch, entangle himself in it. The smell of it, and her, fading lavender from a morning lave. She begins to respond with more ardor, he reaches to . . .

"Take hold of yourself man. Thoughts as these are not going to serve you well at all," he said aloud. He pushed himself out of the bed and proceeded to dress. The impact of what he had just done to himself echoed through his mind. For this had not been a fancy he imagined but the last moment they had shared. The night before she had broken the engagement.

From the time their engagement was known, Anne's mind must have been divided. When with him, nothing but felicity and happiness. Conversation about everything and nothing in particular. Just the joy of holding one another's attention. Private moments of tenderness, endearments traded for caresses and that night, a passion gone nearly too far.

There had been little more, for after his taking her hair down, she had pulled away. From either fear of losing herself completely or the realization she would soon separate herself from him and must begin to drive the wedge. He could see these things now, from the distance of time. Had he seen them then, perhaps bitterness would not have been the chief result.

As he looked back, he knew now that all about them had been working on her to break with him. This last night must of come as she had decided to relinquish him, but maybe his nearness had raised doubt. She had given more of herself than before. Nothing that he could count as indecent as he now knew of indecency, but more than she had allowed previously.

Maybe now, the dream would leave him. Perhaps it had performed its mission. To bring him to the conviction that her choices had not been as many as he had always felt. That she had let go her hold on him reluctantly and tried to leave as much of herself with him as she could part with. She had not ill-used him as he had accused. She herself had been the only one used ill here.

Had he only listened to Edward. In this, his guilt could not be denied. His unbending demands to have it all done his way. To be married immediately and prove himself worthy to her family as time went on. Rather than the advice of his brother to wait, be faithful to Anne without public knowledge and return with the distinction and prosperity he was so confident would be his.

His vainity and self-righteousness had desired to show Sir Walter and Lady Russell mistaken. How he wished that love and humility had driven him more. They might be married now and all these violent passions, both in mind and body could be used to love her properly and well.

The sun rise was beginning to tinge the clouds with a pale pink light. A day to be watchful of at sea. He must begin his ride. Shropshire was far and the weather unknowable. He hoisted his saddle bag to his shoulder, took one look about the room. He closed the door quietly behind him as he withdrew.

Once again, Plymouth had been an important place in Captain Wentworth's life. As he took leave of it, he thought of the next leg in his journey. Shropshire held a promise of new things. A quiet settled in as he rode. A quiet much like that after a storm.

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