As Frederick came over the rise, to the top of the Heights, he turned his horse to take a look back towards the Eddystone Lighthouse. He had not seen it for most of his ride up into the hills, but now it could be clearly seen the fourteen miles out. The fog which had obscured his view earlier had lifted, though the high clouds still blocked the sun. It was a damp and dismal day, one perfect for waiting and thinking and regretting. Dismounting, he took the skin of wine he had brought and dropped the reins so the horse could range free. There was no danger of her running off and leaving as she knew him to have a pocket full of sweets; her greed would keep her quite hobbled.

Sighing heavily as he sat on a large, wet boulder, he took a long pull of the wine; taking cloth wrapped pieces of cheese and bread out of his oilskin pocket, he began to eat. As he took his simple meal, his mind wandered in many of the same directions it had gone the past two days. Admiral Locke being detained in Sussex had played havoc with Frederick's peace. The absence had left too much time to think and ponder his situations. Too much time to relive the mistakes of the past and dread the future that he was creating for himself. Not that he would have had less time to ruminate, but had he seen Locke on Wednesday, as he had hoped, he would surely have more to look forward on rather than back. Making matters worse was the fact there were still two more days until the appointed meeting.

He had begun coming up to the Heights on Wednesday afternoon, having become bored in his room at the inn. Tuesday night there had been a horrific storm and it had left everything dark, and sodden, but that had only fit the Captain's mood.

When he had first thought about his circumstances, he was angry, angry beyond reason. He was angry with Louisa for her injuries, angry with Mr Musgrove for forcing him to engage his daughter, and angry with himself for behaving in a manner which had brought about the expectations in which he now found himself ensnared. As the days had gone by, he had become more reasonable. There was now no anger towards Louisa, she had not intended to do herself harm in her foolish behaviour. Behaviour that he had encouraged. There was no anger with the Musgroves, they were merely seeking the best for their daughter and he could not fault them that. But, no matter how he would try, he could not shake the anger with himself. He had caused all of this and now must pay.

Watching a sloop navigate the chops, then catch the stiff breeze that was stirring, he found himself longing to be aboard her. This was not the first time in the past days that he had desired the freedom jumping a ship would afford him. He had walked the docks and gone so far as to ascertain which of the merchantmen were weighing soon and what their destinations might be. If he were to do such an abhorrent thing, he would sign onto the Dutch merchantman, the Van Duyn, it was headed to Nova Scotia, by way of Boston. From all his knowledge of the Canadian Territories, there was enough expansion, enough land and so many people coming to the country that he could be effectively lost. He could resign his commission; he had more than enough money to live out his days on; find a smaller settlement in one of the inland regions; his father had been in trade, surely some of that was in his blood. He could begin to build a life and then write Anne. He could beg her to come and be with him. It would take time, a year or two, perhaps more, but even while waiting he could keep account of her by way of his sister and the Admiral; casual inquires about a mutual acquaintance would not be suspected. Yes, it would take much time, but it could be done with planning and hard work.

Slowly folding the cloths from his meal, he remarked aloud, "You are a scrub, Frederick." He had gone over and over this same ground before. "The more you think on this, the more it proves what a reprobate you are." He had taken to talking aloud to himself when alone. Hearing his own words made the thoughts behind them sharp and piercing, they cut through to his senses and made him see that he had chosen a way and now must stay to it.

The order of his thought had also, by now, become quite a habit. The ship would perhaps change or its destination, but the remaining thoughts always stayed the same and came in the same progression. It was now that his thoughts would turn to Louisa.

Since the engagement and its announcement, she had taken on the role of a girl to be married. Where in their earlier acquaintance, she had been flirtatious and silly, she now was loving and showed concern for his well-being. As when he had left Uppercross for Plymouth after the family breakfast early Tuesday morning.

He had expressed his farewells to the combined Musgrove-Hayter clan and gone to the door in leaving. Louisa had followed him. Dreading a goodbye from her, he had steeled himself to be aloof. A serving girl had brought his coat and as she had begun to help him with it, Louisa had taken it, thanked the girl, and dismissed her. Holding up the coat, so that he could slide in his arms, she had asked if he was certain to be warm enough, that the rain was very cold that particular morning. He had assured her that he had dressed warmly. She had then expressed concern that the coat might not keep him dry enough. Telling her that he wore a coat of the same material aboard the ship and that it did its duty well enough, and that it would do as well on land, she had relented. Seeing the concern in her eyes, he had softened, he could not deliberately leave her in fear for him.

"Louisa, I have spent the better part of my life in weather such as this, mostly worse." He put himself to buttoning the coat, "Besides that, I do not have heaving decks beneath my feet in Somerset." Thinking that this would assuage her obvious anxiety, he prepared to don his hat and go out.

"But on a ship, there are no horses to shy and throw you in a ditch. Could you please stay and give the rain an hour or so to ease?" Her look had been hope and worry. He could not stay, but he also could not dislike this girl. In proposing to her, he had granted her an allowance to care for him and now, she was determined to carry it out.

"You are right, I hadn't a horse to contend with on board the Laconia, but I promise to be quite careful and remain upright and out of ditches." Putting himself to pulling on his gloves, he prepared to go.

"Frederick . . . I will miss you." She was still hesitant to call him by his Christian name and she still coloured a bit when doing so. Her words had been simple, there was no plea for a response in her voice.

He thought of saying the same, but he knew it would be a lie. She would never know that, but the effect would be to draw her to him even more. "I shall return soon, Thursday next. Good bye, Louisa."

As he had turned to go, she had taken hold of his arm and gently pulled him back. Laying her hand lightly on his cheek, she had kissed his other and that was all. She had not demanded a show from him, she had done everything.

A rustling near the doorway had betrayed a spy just then; the youngest Musgrove boy, Harry, had been watching their exchange and had found his sister's behaviour disgusting, "Mama! Louisa kissed the Captain!" he had cried. Haring out of reach of either of them, he had taken refuge in the dining room where the family was still gathered over coffee and tea. As awkward as it had all been, he could not help himself. He had smiled and patted Louisa's arm as he had left out the door.

"I cannot dislike her, if only I could dislike her family! They treat me as a son already. Blast you, Dick, why did you have to cop it? At least then, I could have someone to hate!" Jamming the cloths into his now empty pocket, he rose and began to walk. Carefully picking his way through the sodden hillocks of grass, rather deep plashes and large stones strewn over the landscape, he soon noticed that his horse had wandered back and was taking an interest in his movements. The mare followed and nudged him in the back, demanding a sweet. Reaching into his other pocket, he removed the paper twist, opening it, he pulled out several of the sweets, taking one for himself, he handed the rest to the impatient animal. Nodding her head as she chewed, she bumped his shoulder. "Yes, you would have hated him too. He was about as worthless as one can be without being knocked on the head. No, girl. Midshipman, Richard Musgrove was worse, once over the side, the dead do not make the trouble he did." Not being philosophically minded, and seeing that she was to have no more sweets, the horse wandered off again to find some grass to graze.

The wind was stirring and rain had turned to a thin mist, now playing upon Frederick's face. The lighthouse had disappeared in a quickly moving bank of fog. As the wind blew his oilskin about and the clouds dropped, he felt completely alone. It was not a feeling he cared for as he was not solitary by nature, he liked good company. That was what vexed him so about the Musgroves.

When he had first come to Kellynch Hall the previous autumn, they had opened their home and themselves to him without reservation. They had not been exactly strangers. They had met years before in the course of the Captain being their son's commanding officer aboard the Laconia. But, as the Captain had met hundreds of mothers, father, sisters, brothers, wives and children over the course of his career, he had no perfect knowledge of the Musgroves even after being invited to their home. Mrs Musgrove had been the one to speak of the connection. In the course of the evening, he had taken pains to speak as amiably of their dead son as possible, seeing that the mother showed a great love for the fellow. Thinking of Dick Musgrove brought about another vexing point. He was just newly engaged to Louisa, and Mr Musgrove had already taken him into an extraordinarily delicate family confidence.

At the family breakfast, Frederick had found himself in the presence of Miss Arabella Musgrove. It was by her innocent desire for a story that he knew that Louisa was no longer able to read. Miss Arabella was rather smitten with the Captain as very young ladies are wont to be with handsome, older gentlemen. He was quite different looking than the Musgrove and Hayter men, as he was much taller and somewhat slender in comparison with her father and brothers.

She had come and stood silently by his chair for a time, studying him, working up the courage to speak. At last, she began, "My brother Charlth theth that you thail a thip and that you find pritheth. What must you do to win the pritheth, thir?" The question had put him back for a moment. Her impediment made understanding a bit difficult, but once that was overcome, he was left with the very baffling question. How does one make such a complicated process, which keeps men risking their lives year after year, understandable to a very young child?

"Well, Miss Arabella. I sail about on the sea and look for enemy ships, and when I find one, I do my best to take it from them and then give it to other men who sell it and give me some of the money. The money I receive is my prize."

Arabella had looked terribly disappointed. Money held no great value to her, she felt sorry that he did not find dolls and toys like the new pull-horse that her father had brought her when he had returned from Taunton. Another thought had intruded on her sympathy for the Captain. "You are given money for taking away a boat?"

He noticed that she began to speak of a boat, not a thip. "Yes, that is right. They give me some of the money from selling them." Frederick loved the look of vexation on the girl's face, he could see that she was puzzling out something and was curious to hear what it might be.

"I do not think that quite right!" she declared in a firm voice.

This at first surprised him and then this bothered him. It seemed a judgement upon his whole of living, but he was determined to know her reason for such a statement. "And why do you think it wrong, Miss Arabella?"

"Well, if I take that which duth not belong to me, I have to give it back and tell that I am thorry and will never do it again! Mama thayth that thou thalt not thteal!" She had struggled to be clear, but her tone was firm and her look was one of indignation to see that a grown man would be so ignorant of simple, basic fact.

Frederick knew that there was no argument for the little girl's words. Hers were, of course, the ideas of a child. There were adult realities of war and national sovereignty that would be lost upon a four-year-old mind, but he liked her resoluteness and firmness of opinion. It seems to be a family trait, he thought ironically.

All he could think to say, was, "Perhaps it would make you feel better to know that I do share the money with my crew?" He looked at her with a bit of amusement, wondering what she might have to say.

She thought long on this new point, but all she could manage was a firm, "Oh."

Taking advantage of the quietness of the corner, Arabella stood, carefully pondering this man who admitted to taking things and being rewarded for it, as he sat, pondering what he could say to further redeem himself in her eyes. Mr Musgrove had brought things to a close when he found them and sent Arabella to her mother.

"I heard some of your conversation with Arabella. She is much too bright for so young." Mr Musgrove came into the corner of the room where the Captain was seated. He sat heavily in a nearby chair. The morning being so wet and cold had stirred the older man's gout and he was using a cane to help himself along. Calling for one of the serving girls, he asked her to bring them both coffee and turned back to the Captain. "She is very bright. Not much like her father."

It was a statement which could not be answered. Frederick wondered what he could possibly mean. While he had never found Mr Musgrove to be a wit, the gentleman was keen enough to manage an estate the size of Uppercross, and do it very well by all appearances. "She is quite conversant for, how old did you say? Four?"

Nodding, Mr Musgrove said, "Yes, four. Five come next January. No . . . she fortunately takes after neither her mother or father." By his lowered tone and furtive look, Frederick could see that Mr Musgrove was about to say something quite out of the ordinary. Something which he now knew to be terribly confidential.

As he was about to speak, the coffee was brought and the confidence remained untold while the girl poured and handed the cups round. Was there anything else the gentlemen cared for? Could she bring a stool for the Master's gouty leg? It would be no trouble. Mr Mugrove dealt with the girl in an unhurried and kind manner, so that they were soon alone again.

"As I said, Arabella takes after neither her mother or father. It was difficult to realise that my son was such a profligate. But, you would already know that, Captain. Wouldn't you?" Mr Musgrove looked over his cup as he sipped his coffee.

As the Captain looked at Mr Mugrove, he realised that the elder Musgroves were obviously not her parents, but that she was their granddaughter, obviously a natural granddaughter. He thought, Surely, he cannot mean, Charles? Charles is a bit dithering, but certainly not a profligate. And why would I know anything? He was not certain what he should say. It would be presumptuous to pursue an identity, though it was Mr Musgrove who brought the subject to the fore. "Pardon me for sounding thickheaded, sir. I do not understand your meaning," he said simply. It left things open for an advance or a retreat, should Mr Musgrove think better of what he had just said.

"Arabella is Richard's daughter." The man's tone as he said the words, was dull and pained. When the topic of Dick Musgrove had been spoken of earlier in the acquaintance, it had been Mrs Musgrove who had spoken so lovingly of her son. Mr Musgrove had been quiet, but with not so much as a look which would lead a person to think there was an ill-feeling on the part of the man's father. Doing some quick mental calculations, the Captain also realised that Dick Musgrove would have only been barely seventeen when the girl had come into the world.

Dick Musgrove had been under the Captain's care early in the boy's sixteenth year . He had been taken aboard the Laconia at Gibraltar sometime in January or February. And Captain Wentworth had only taken him on because there had been a glowing recommendation from his previous commander, Captain Trencher. Wentworth should have suspected something, knowing Blue Light Trencher's reputation. Captain Ernest Trencher was known for issuing Bibles, bought with his own money, to the entire crew, paying for pamphlets and tracts which made their way into the men's hammocks, and for putting off those found to be poxed. Such was Dick Musgrove. While these things of themselves were not wicked, to Frederick's mind, putting off a good for nothing scrub, poxed into the bargain, and then writing a recommendation to fool the next officer into thinking the man able, made all his other actions a complete sham.

It had taken only days for Captain Wentworth to find Midshipman Musgrove not only unfit for any occupation aboard ship, much less aspirations to officer, but that he was plainly a disagreeable human being. While there could be some expectation of him altering with age, it would certainly not be for the better and within a week, the Captain was making plans to rid himself of Mr Musgrove. It had taken much time for such an opportunity to present itself, but, six months later, when it had, it had been absurdly simple and quickly done.

Upon the end of three days of refitting, provisioning and liberty in Port Mahon on Minorca, the blue peter had been hoisted, and the gun fired, giving all libertymen twenty minutes to return to the ship. While Captain Wentworth was normally given to looking the other way at twenty-two or twenty-three minutes, the instant the twenty minutes was exhausted, and it was ascertained that Midshipman Richard Musgrove was not on board, no search was made, the order to weigh anchor was loudly given and carried out more quickly than recent memory could account. There had been no guilt on the Captain's part; it was certain that Mr Musgrove could have his pick of ships desperate for hands, (and it was obvious that he had found one returning to England very soon there after, considering the age of his daughter). As a bonus, there was no recommendatory letter full of nebulous comments and vague catalogue of accomplishments to write. The memory nearly brought a smile to the Captain's lips, but he recalled with whom he was speaking and knew that a smile upon hearing this news was very inappropriate.

Mr Musgrove sat quietly for a moment, judging the effect of his last statement. The Captain did not seem shocked or disgusted by the revelation and so he continued. "Earlier this year, a girl appeared on the doorstep with Arabella. The creature was dirty and clearly ill-suited to care for her, any child really. She said she was from Portsmouth, how she crept all that way, I cannot tell. It was clear that her claiming the girl to be Dick's was the truth, as I said yesterday, she is the image of Louisa at such an age. The hair and eyes especially. Not only that, but she had Dick's watch. The one given when he went to sea. To get her out of the area, we gave her some money and took Arabella. We sent the little one first to Mrs Musgrove's family at Winthrop, with every intention of merely putting her in school when it was time, and caring for her in all ways that one would expect from a family . . . under these circumstances. But the Hayter family is obviously low," indicating the hilarity in the other room, "and are not prone to improvement; Arabella is too fine to be left withering with them. Sadie and I adopted her as our own. Everyone but Charles thinks she is an orphaned waif from Portsmouth. Charles knows and I am telling you, Captain, in the event that anything happens to me. I am not such a fool to think that I shall live forever, I am an old man and Arabella is so young that I am afraid she would be more than Sadie could care for, should I pass." At this point, Mr Musgrove called for a stool and more coffee. It was clear that the gentleman was uncomfortable, but felt that having launched into this subject, he could not stop now.

As the Captain contemplated what had been thus far confided, he began to wonder what might be expected of him by his being made privy to such a family history. It was unnerving to be told such intimacies when his feelings about his upcoming marriage were so cold. He was being woven into the household by kindness and secrets, becoming a part of the canvas of the Musgrove family.

"Where was I? Oh, yes . . . you see, nothing about Arabella's parents is written down, not even in my will. Upon my death, she will receive the same share as the other girls, but she is so young that I worry for her care." Mr Musgrove shifted in his seat and the furrow in his brow said that what he was not yet finished with this uncomfortable talk. "As I said before, Charles knows about the girl, and has promised to take her if needs be, but . . . I fear that Mary would not allow him to fulfill his promise. She does not like Arabella and I do not think that Charles is of the metal to overrule her."

Mr Musgrove sat silently for a moment. It was a painful admission for the man. It caused him deep grief to think that Arabella could go wanting because of his daughter-in-law. Nearly as galling as the knowledge that Mary would one day be the mistress of Uppercross Hall and his legacy would be at the mercy of such a woman.

The Captain could see that Mr Musgrove was thinking, perhaps thinking better of allowing such a family shame out to a relative stranger.

"The reason I am telling you all of this, Captain, is that, I believe you to be a kindly man. I do not wish to burden you, but I would ask that you and Louisa oblige me by taking care of Arabella if things should come to that. I do not want her to go back to the Hayters or I would charge Charles Hayter and Henrietta with this. As I grow older, I know that a man must provide for his family, when I leave this life, if each is not well taken care of, I will have failed them and would be pitiable above all men."

"Sir, I hate to see you so distressed over this matter." Frederick had no idea what else to say.

Mr Musgrove smiled wryly at the Captain. "My only distress in this matter is that I am not able to give this over to my own son and know it will be done. As I said, you, I believe, are a kindly, and an honourable man; since I am trusting you with the hand of one daughter, I know that I can trust the care of my youngest to you as well."

How much more could be expected of him? He had committed himself to Louisa, to care for her by giving her his name, must he now consent to raising a small child if the need should arise? Could Louisa do such a thing, was she able to care for another? All these things came to his mind at once. Sitting quietly for a moment, he became aware the Mr Musgrove was looking at him with expectancy. He needed time to consider, surely that would be seen as prudent.

Shifting in his seat, he smiled at Mr Musgrove. "Sir . . . I understand and admire your concern for Arabella. I also understand your . . . hesitancy regarding Mr Charles and Miss Henrietta, but I must beg for time to consider. There is Louisa's health . . . and . . ."

Mr Musgrove leaned back in the chair and pursed his lips. He had counted the Captain to be a decisive man and this hesitation came as a surprise. "I understand Captain, if you are reluctant to promise such a thing. It is quite a lot to take on . . . someone else's child and all." He folded his hands and bringing his forefingers together in a peak, he quietly sat staring at them.

Frederick could see that Mr Musgrove telling him the confidence and asking his help had been painful to the older man, but that it had also been an act of desperation, that the Captain's accepting responsibility for Arabella, should it be required, would have put Mr Musgrove at peace. He could see that there would be no living on the out-skirts of this family, In for a penny, in for a pound. Frederick thought. "Mr Musgrove, as I have said, there is much to be considered in taking on such a responsibility. While I would not wish to outright refuse you, I will promise to consider the matter while I am away in Plymouth. When I return next week, I shall have a well-thought out answer for you." He stood and offered his hand to Musgrove.

Taking Frederick's hand, Mr Musgrove said, " The Good Book says that a wise man counts the cost, I can ask no more of you than that." They shook hands and the Captain had left soon after.

Taking a candy from his pocket and placing it in his mouth, he began to think on the matter. Captain Wentworth knew something of having responsibility for other people's children. Not direct care of them, but the responsibility for them. The youngest squeaker he had ever had aboard the Laconia was nine-years-old. Anything under fourteen was nearly useless on board, but as a favor to friends wanting a boy to have time at sea to claim, it sometimes became necessary to take them younger. Since most of the youngsters were used as officer's servants, care for the little boys usually fell to the Lady of the Gunroom: the officer who oversees the meals for the junior officers. Once they were sixteen, the care and feeding of the young gentlemen he knew quite a lot about, since his midshipmen where of particular interest to him. He was always scrupulous about shipping a schoolmaster and seeing that the fellows were literate and mathematically trained. He knew a little something, but these were boys on a ship, not a little girl. There were a few hundred men to watch out for not more than a handful of children. If Arabella were ever to come to them, it would most likely be Louisa alone who would have to care for the girl. Would her health allow it? He did not know if Louisa even liked children. Perhaps Arabella would be worse off with them than with Mary Musgrove.

He sat again on a boulder and pushed the mud before it about with the toe of his boot. The fate of Arabella Musgrove was more than he cared to contemplate just then, watching the fog move over the water, he knew that for a time, there would be no more views of the lighthouse or even the channel, so heavy had the clouds become. A light rain had begun as he allowed his mind to drift and again indulged himself with his favourite of thoughts, a quiet and settled life with Anne by his side. The scenes themselves were varied, but the time of year was always autumn. Perhaps it was owing to the last glimpse of her having been in the fall of the year, whatever the reason, he always pictured them in that season. There were times he imagined a snug frame house in a small town was hers to care for; this particular time, it was a log cabin carved out of the Canadian wilderness, near an outpost far from civilisation. He was never certain about how many or their sexes, but there were always children surrounding them, for surely Anne's tender heart and superior mind would make her a wonderful mother. While his occupation remained unknown, he often thought about his nightly coming home to her. The house was always warm and smelled of dinner cooking, her smiling as she came to him. Then a quick succession of them having dinner with their children, reading stories and talking, putting them to bed. Anne would be a wonderful mother. Then they would retire . . . alone.

He would take her in his arms, and looking into her warm brown eyes, caress her cheek, perhaps brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead. Taking her face in his hands, he would kiss her. Gently at first, then increasingly, it gives way to a passion that had been built over the years of anger. The more he allowed himself to think this way, the more intimate the thoughts of him and Anne became, and in all of this, she, of course returned his affections fully and completely.

Indulging himself in these faerie tales was soothing and took him away from his real world, but they were becoming stronger and more persistent, harder to shake from his mind. He could now see that his brother had been right, fidelity would be impossible. The desire to indulge himself with these thoughts of Anne would not suddenly disappear after his marriage to Louisa, and he knew that resentment towards his wife would build until it became a hate, a hate she could never hope to understand.

While the Captain's heart was becoming somewhat stoney when it came to his private thoughts, another notion had made itself known to him and was disturbing his peace even further.

If he were to do such a thing as start again in another part of the world, he would most likely never return to England. This had stirred the thought that Anne had no family to lament, and it would not be necessary to their happiness to hear from them, much less see them ever again. So, while Sir Walter and his other daughters would certainly be scandalised by Anne running away to the Canadian Territories with him, their never having to returning to England did not seem such a deprivation Though this did not hold true for his family. While he did not think that Sophia and the Admiral would approve of his actions, they would, nonetheless, accept the situation and over the years there would be letters exchanged and perhaps even visits, as the Crofts were lovers of adventure and travel. Edward and Catherine were another matter.

Frederick did not believe that his brother would reject him outright, there would be disapproval to be sure, but not complete repudiation. Edward was a reasonable man and wanted his brother's happiness, that alone would keep them in contact. But Frederick knew that his brother would abominate his throwing over Louisa in such a cold manner as jumping a ship and that there would be a strain that might never be overcome. Another thought had raised its head, if the Captain never returned to England, he would most likely never see his brother and sister-in-law again. He would never see the child she carried or any others they might have in the future. His newfound attachment with his brother would be fairly well wrecked.

While these things saddened him, despite all of these obstacles and sorrows, he consoled himself with the notion that Anne would become everything to him and he could become everything to Anne, they would become everything to one another. Taking another deep pull of the wine, he revelled in feelings such a freedom would bring them. They could be happy. He could be content away from the sea, if he only had Anne. Yes, he could persuade her, surely he could.

But with the same clear vision he could see a happy life for them in another country, he could also see that his betrayal of Louisa Musgrove for that perfect life would be his undoing. Now that he was promised to Louisa, anything he did to extricate himself would be far worse than making it clear to Mr Musgrove that he could not marry his daughter. Perhaps he should have gone first to Admiral Locke, then feigned ignorance of the letter. The disgrace he would now bring on Louisa and her family would be a public humiliation to them and it would not be forgotten by any of the family, and that included Anne. The irony was, Anne's honourable nature would no more allow her to come and make a life with him after such an evil, than his honourable nature could allow him to leave Louisa Musgrove, injured and without a hope for future happiness.

Emptying the skin, he hitched the strap over his shoulder and clapped his hands for the horse. She looked up and began to shamble his way only after he crumpled the candy paper in his pocket. After mounting, he allowed the horse her way down the hill, she carefully wending her way, leaving him enough of his own mind to think.

"An honourable man. Others call me honourable, that is what I call myself. It is the trait I appeal to in justifying my marrying Louisa Musgrove. Honour." The word had a flat, dead sound to it as he spoke it aloud, but very quietly to himself.

"But how much honour is there in deliberately marrying a woman, knowing that you do not care for her excepting in an unspecific humane way? Marrying her with no intention of even staying by her, leaving her with your honourable name and a full purse? Is that honourable? Is any of that less contemptible than jumping a ship, building a new life and begging the only woman I have ever truly loved to join me in it?" The rain had begun again in earnest and his horse was having difficulty keeping her legs under her. Steering her off of the well worn path, they continued down through rocks and puddles, but on more solid earth.

Looking out toward the channel, he continued aloud, "My whole life at sea has been that of honourable toils. Hard work and sacrifice in exchange for the reward of prize. I have given years of my life, I have even given of my very flesh and blood for the honour of serving the Crown. I have followed orders and men I have abominated, I have fought and done things in battle which yet follow me in my dreams; all in the name of honour. I have taken pleasure in the adulation and the fortune which has come to me, but why? What I have desired above all things is not gainable by honourable toils, it can only be gained by turning from honour and selfishly pursuing my own happiness. I have not yet committed myself by marriage; while putting Louisa aside will be hurtful to she and her family and destroy propriety, my doing so could not be as immoral as carrying through with the vows." A stumble of the horse brought him back to the task at hand. Putting his mind to guiding his mount down the rest of the hill, and looking occasionally to the water, he studied the weather for clearing.

He had come to the flats and could allow his mind back to their previous thoughts. "If I could but see Anne, talk to her, tell her of my plans, I could persuade her, regardless of her doubts; I would explain how hurt and angry I had been when I had returned from the war. I would tell her how I had come to see the truth of her superiority and how there has never been another woman who is her equal. If I could but take her in my arms and show her how much I truly love her . . . "

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