At the same time that Captain Wentworth was securing his escape back to the sea, his brother was feeling the fetters of his own situation tightening around him.

Reverend Edward Wentworth was normally a patient man, normally a man not given to fits of temper and pique. But the past few days had tried him beyond his endurance. Coming into his study without his wife, Catherine hearing him, he sat in his chair and laid his head on his arms. Early the previous week, he had been summoned to Bramford Hall, family seat of the Vernon's. Through a long and complicated set entails and fulfillments, the property now rested in the hands of the seventh generation, Pollard Vernon Levant.

Levant's grandmother had held the property passed to her from her father. She had married young and unwisely, but the man had been killed while engaged in a highly suspect bout of judicial combat, leaving her with one child. This had been Pollard's father.

Because of the odd timing of the grandmother's death and Pollard's father's, there had been a bit of froth from some once removed cousins, but they had decided not to pursue the matter when it was determined that the place had not covered its own expenses for years and that the ground itself seemed to be prone to moulds and creeping vines that choked the life out of anything planted for profit.

Pollard Levant had carried on much as any son of a careless man, in a careless fashion. He had gone to University and eventually came away with what might be loosely termed an education; he had lived beyond his allowance and had caused more than one girl's family to pack her up and send her out of his reach. Pollard was neither pleased nor revulsed by his own ways, he just gave them very little thought. He had had very little in the way of manly training, his father having been in the Army and his living so much of the time with his grandmother. His mother had died while delivering a younger sister who had not lived but a fortnight. While Pollard did not mind his own ways very much, he did mind not having as much as he would like. When possession of Bramford Hall had come to him, his first order of business was to see how much ready money he could find. To his delight, he found that his grandmother, while a shrewd woman was also a woman who possessed a heart, which meant that there were many, far and wide who were indebted to her. This was the exact circumstance with Reverend Wentworth.

Sarah Emily Vernon Levant had performed her responsibilities as the patroness of Crown Hill with a vengeance. She had looked after the small dame's school overseen by Tabby Merton, the poulterer's widow. In exchange for one free education, (always given to a worthy young man), Mrs Levant saw that the reading books were not only sturdy but of the proper Calvinistic sensibilities. Her watchful eye saw to it that whoever was doctoring had the benefit of a private subscription journal that she received quarterly from London. Her offense had been great when that raffish Dr Abernathy had graciously thanked her but proceeded to declare the primary author a quack and a money grubber. But more than anything else, Sarah Levant felt the keen obligation of seeing that the parish pulpit was filled with the proper sort of clergyman.

Over the years, there had been various types of men behind the rostrum of Crown Hill Parish. Reverend Chester Eccles had been a good preacher, but his weight had brought about complications. Custom-made surplices had to be ordered from Shrewsbury and then there had been that embarrassing episode concerning that weak bit of flooring found during the Halliwell christening. The Reverend Daniel Dunston had made a fine preacher, a wonderful voice, fine turn of phrase; the man practiced his sermons so that they were perfect every Sunday morning. The only problem was that he practiced on the hill near the carriageway by the rectory. His wonderful voice would resonate over the roadway so that anyone passing could hear what was to be proclaimed the following day. To those of a mind to listen, did one of two things; the pious listened well and then felt justified in staying home abed the next day because they knew what was to be preached or the sinner listened and studiously avoided church that next morning, also knowing what was to be preached. The tithes had sunk to an alarming level and Reverend Dunston had moved on. Previous to Reverend Wentworth, there had been Reverend Milton Saxon. Reverend Saxon had also been an excellent clergyman, if one were willing to dismiss his tendency to forget Sundays. The first time it had happened, he had ridden out to the Tedlow farm and waited patiently for the family, knowing that they had surely forgotten the appointed meeting time and would return soon. They had returned home, only after the services at the church were ended by fervent prayers for the safe return of the Reverend and the singing of an appropriate hymn. The same had happened enough times that the rumblings brought the notice of the Church Authorities. And so, Reverend Milton having many family members who watched out for his interests, was soon appointed to a rather esteemed position assisting the Bishop in Shrewsbury. In Shrewsbury they did not seem to take any notice of his untimely absences.

Reverend Milton had left them in December of 1813 and in January of the following year, Mrs Levant was determined that a clergyman of sense would be her next choice. She had visited a friend in Glencoe parish one Sunday and had been impressed that the curate was not a young man who had one eye on the young ladies and the other on the clock. She had first noticed him because he was not a young man at all. He had moved about unobtrusively and when the service was ended, the man had gone about ordering prayer books and straightening things that had been put out of order. Enquiring as to his identity, she had found willing sources that informed her that he was Edward Wentworth, he was very old and was in possession of his orders, but chose to serve under men he had read and admired rather than take a pulpit. That had been odd to her and she had quizzed him about it when they had finally met. His answer had pleased the old lady and she had decided then and there to offer him the living of Crown Hill. He had smiled and thanked her most kindly, but had thought it best that he remain under the Reverend of Glencoe just now, not being certain that he was ready to take a parish of his own. At this, the woman had let out a hoot and told Reverend Wentworth that at his advanced age, he best do it now before he was serving the Lord God Almighty himself--in Heaven, for he would surely be dying soon! The curate could see the wisdom in this and after a week or two of reflection, had accepted the calling. There had never been a formal agreement, no documents and no money had changed hands. For a man who at one time had made his living giving and receiving receipts for human beings and doing well enough at it to prosper heavily, he had not taken the same care in this transaction.

In October Mrs Levant had died unexpectedly and in two weeks, her son had joined her in death. All the lady's material goods were naturally to go to her son and this had been the plan being followed by her lawyers. When her son had died, there had been questions as to the beneficiary. The rightest legal claim was that of Pollard, he was most directly descended of the old woman and therefore the best claimant, but questions had been raised as to whether Mrs Levant had made promises and perhaps even a new will. After a few weeks of churning, with not the slightest hint of a newer testament, things had been settled in favour of Pollard.

Not caring for the country, the new Master of the Hall had determined to stay in town and raise what Cain he had time for, having all the fun he was able before trudging off to Bramford with all the inherent responsibilities. But now it was February and Pollard was installed in the Hall and looking to whom he might canoodle a repayment from. His first touch had been Edward Wentworth.

Since the living had always, more or less been bestowed by Mrs Levant without any expectation of payment, Edward had never felt any apprehension when he had said the proper words over the mortal remains of Sarah Levant. But apprehension was now his constant state since his first visit with Pollard Levant. The very Monday after his brother had left them, a note requesting his presence had arrived at the rectory. Expecting that Mr Levant would wish to renew the tacit agreement that had been between Mrs Levant and himself, Edward had trotted happily to Bramford Hall, much like a lamb to its final resting place--the plate. Mr Levant had been quite polite, but rather insistent that there must be some sort of payment, the living was too valuable an asset to go untapped. Edward had countered with the fact that Mrs Levant had despised the practice of selling a calling of God and that she had chosen to give it to him. This had not touched Mr Levant. The young man had pointed out that Crown Hill would soon be in the way of benefitting from the new foundry going in down by the river and that would bring the tithes up, hence a more worthy parish. The first meeting had ended coldly, Mr Levant knew that he had the advantage in that the living was now his to bestow where he might. Edward had nothing and was not certain what he might do. There had been vague figures mentioned, but they had always changed and were never the same from statement to statement. This second meeting was worse, Mr Levant was now talking of advertising and spreading the news of an opening. Edward was in a stew, there was no money to be had, not in such a quantity anywise. He could not share this with Catherine as things were suspect with her pregnancy just now and the fear on his part was that this news would do them both harm. His best wager was to pray and allow God to act, it was also the only thing he was really able to do.

As he sat with his head down, Catherine came into the room, "You have a letter . . . it is from Frederick," she said quietly.

Raising his head, he took it and was thankful that it was only one sheet and would not cost him so much; then upon examining it, found that the dear boy had franked it and that it would cost them nothing. Upon opening and reading it, his thankfulness changed to disappointment and anger. The news of the wedding was not met with joy on the part of Edward Wentworth.

"He is to marry her."

"Miss Musgrove, you mean?"

"Yes. Miss Musgrove."

Catherine was reluctant to say anything about the matter. Since her opinion was not that of her husband, it had always been met with a chilly eye. Edward had spoken of Frederick's divided heart, the fear of faithlessness of the mind and the humiliation that would come to the girl from not being loved by her husband. In her heart, Catherine suspected that it all came down to Edward's deep desire to only see his brother happy. They both knew that happiness for Frederick was tied to one Miss Anne Elliot. Though Catherine believed there were other possibilities.

"It says here that the wedding is to be in a fortnight." Turning the letter and looking at the post mark, he exclaimed, "That scrub! He mailed this Tuesday! He hoped there would be no time for me to come. He in fact says that there is no need." Reading the letter again, he snorted, "I'll wager he is afraid that were I to come, I would try and talk him out of such an abominable scheme. Well, he is right on that score," he said nearly to himself.

Catherine had stood and listened. Watching his face flush and contort as he read and reread the letter. While she knew any interjection on her part would be useless, she tried. "Tell me again why this is such a bad scheme."

With an exaggerated dropping of his hand holding the letter, Edward looked at her with mock stupidity. "He does not love her, he is so tied up inside with Miss Elliot that this marriage will be wrecked before it begins and he will wind up humiliating this poor girl no end. No! I must go and stop him."

"And how do you propose doing that? Shall you forbid him? He is rather too old for that." As she spoke, all the talk of this possibility and how horrible it would be found its way to Catherine's tongue and she was determined to say, just this once, all that she thought. "Or perhaps you might tie him up and hide him somewhere until he comes to his senses. Better yet . . . ," her eyes narrowed with irony, "Perhaps you should tell . . . " She stopped herself before she could voice such a dreadful thought. Perhaps you should tell Miss Musgrove of Frederick's heart and she will abandon the wedding! Catherine was surprised at her own vehemence. She was not at all convinced that the marriage was terrible and felt that of all involved, it was Miss Musgrove's feelings which were being ignored the most. To tell that poor girl such an awful thing about a man she held in enough regard to marry would be criminal.

"Perhaps I should tell who . . . what?"

Scrambling to find something to say, Catherine stuttered out, "Perhaps you . . . should tell, Frederick . . . to . . . try harder and learn to love this girl." She knew that her husband would notice the slip and waited for him to say something.

"I doubt he would be able to. He's not thinking very clearly in any of this and I don't think he wishes to hear that old song again." Edward looked back at the letter and folding it, put it in his drawer.

He had not noticed her slip. Normally he would have seen it and asked her to tell him what she really meant. Edward was a man who very much disliked people saying one thing when they genuinely thought another. "I think I will go and do some hand work in the sitting room, I find I'm rather tired just now." Quickly kissing the top of Edward's head, she left the room before he could continue on about Frederick's predicament.

As she walked to the sitting room, she mused that she was doing that more lately, just in the last weeks since Frederick's departure. She was more cross and given to closeting herself away with her needlework. Edward too was preoccupied. He had received a note from Bramford Hall several days ago and since visiting Pollard Levant as requested, he had been pensive and inattentive. Not only to her, but to everyone. At dinner with the Junkins, he had to be roused to converse several times and they had come home early as he was no fit company. Church was the only place that she had not seen the distraction, though as soon as he was in the house, it had overtaken him. As the rector's wife, she knew there were many things he would never share with her, family secrets too delicate and dangerous for anyone other than a man of God to know. Perhaps this was the case with Pollard Levant. Such things had never bothered her in the past, but this . . . this had a different quality to it and she was troubled by his continued preoccupation.

Leaning into the room, Edward said to her, "I shall leave early tomorrow morning. If I am lucky, I can get to Somerset before the wedding. I am going up to pack a case, now."

Looking up from her embroidery, she asked, "Will you grant me a favour?"

Expecting that she needed him to fetch her something, he came fully into the room. "Certainly, what do you need?"

"I need you to think on something as you travel to the wedding." Laying aside the needle and thread, she looked him fully in the eyes. "Firstly, you have gone through too much torment to lose Frederick to a quarrel about this and secondly, a gentle answer turns away wrath, will you please think on these things? . . . for me?" The whole of her heart was pleading with him as she said this. She knew she could not stop his going, but perhaps she could give him other thoughts to occupy his mind rather than the composing of angry arguments that could only foul the situation worse.

Relaxing his shoulders and allowing a small smile to his lips, he came to sit next to her. Taking her in his arms, he said, "I shall . . . for you. I know that we do not see this the same and perhaps it is time that I listen to you about it. One thing is sure, I will have much time to think." Keeping her close to him, they sat quietly until Catherine broke the silence.

"I would like one more thing. If they have no plans, bring them here, I wish to meet her." The request was simple and there was no dispute on Edward's part.

Giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, he stood and said lazily, "Well, I shall think on the things you have said and if there is nothing that they must immediately do, I shall ask them to come . . . that is . . . if they are married at all." He looked at her with a raised brow. They both knew that one of them would lose this disagreement, the only question was, who?

James Benwick stared at the fire, deep in thought. Taking the last drink of the brandy that had been shared as Captain Wentworth had told of his engagement, he put the glass back on the shelf that held a few cordials. Harville returned from seeing their friend to the door. The two men stood and looked at one another for a moment.

Harville spoke first. "I am astonished. When he left here in November, he had been quite firm in his protestations having to do with Miss Musgrove. But now . . ."

Benwick shook his head and took his chair by the fire. Staring again at the flames, he pondered the entire exchange. There had been something in the Captain's manner which had bothered him. There was a familiarity about it which had put Benwick to thinking. It had suddenly come to him that Wentworth's manner had been very much the same when he had come to tell James of Fanny Harville's death. He carried himself the same and there was the same tightness in his jaw. "But now he is to marry her. I must say that I also am surprised. While their conduct last fall was . . . intimate, I thought that once he had departed, all idea of an attachment had been laid to rest." Taking up a fid which sat on the book shelf as a decoration, James let it slide through his encircled thumb and forefinger until its large end filled the space.

He thought again how the Captain having left Miss Musgrove without an idea of his whereabouts nor an idea about his return, all efforts had been used to draw her mind in other directions. The efforts had been successful and in just a few weeks, Miss Musgrove acted as if the Captain had never been important to her in any way. As this had happened, James Benwick had taken to helping to occupy the girl. He had read to her and when Louisa was able, he had walked with her. They had been comfortable together and for a short time, James had pondered the idea of pursuing an attachment. The thought had been short-lived as he came to realise that other than trying to salve his own pained emotions, he had no business raising the girl's hopes again.

"For a man telling us about his engagement to quite a nice girl, he acted as if he were bearing bad news," James mused aloud.

While Frederick's countenance had not bespoken raptures, Timothy knew Wentworth to be reserved about personal matters, more like himself. James being so romantic, held great store by outward signs of emotions. "So, what do you mean, he looks as though he were bearing bad news?"

"He looked that way when he rowed out to the Grappler to tell me of Fanny." Benwick looked into the fire thinking about that wretched day and how his life had ever been changed by the few little words that his friend and former captain had brought him.

Timothy hobbled over to his chair, his leg had been giving him worse fits than usual these past weeks. Sitting heavily in the chair, he sighed in relief. Taking up his glass of brandy, he took a small sip, savoring the slight burn of the occasional indulgence. "Don't allow yourself to be weighed down with the memories, James."

It was a warning that was kindly meant, Benwick did allow lowness to creep upon him now and again. "No, I was just remembering how even before he said a word, I knew there was something tragic about to befall me. I had no idea how tragic, but just his presence spoke volumes." Commander Benwick had never told his friend any particulars about the week that Wentworth had cared for him. There had been times that it had been as though they were parent and child; other times had been as though they were gaoler and prisoner, each had occupied both offices. Most of the time had been deadly quiet. His small cabin of the brig did not afford much space, even with Wentworth occupying a smaller cabin knocked together by the carpenter and spending as much of the days with James as James would allow. Wentworth had always left a Marine on guard outside the cabin door with orders to look in every quarter hour. And so this had made up the oppressive days of the small, crowded cabin, fug and hot in August. The quiet had made the cabin shrink, but Wentworth had been afraid to allow Benwick out. There had been times that James had muttered disturbing and accusatory words, all direct at himself. The fear of self harm was not far from either captains' mind. "I knew things were not right, he had hired a bum boat. He could have surely gotten loan of a barge from any number of captains in port. And then he came up the larboard with no salute. My first had warned me there was a stern-faced captain headed our way and so I was prepared, but when I recognised him, I was quite at ease, until I saw how he was coming aboard. No attention drawn to himself. Then I knew . . ."

"Now that you say that, he looks just as he did after I told him about Fanny. After he had volunteered to go to you. Damnable business. I regret not having the courage to tell you myself. Frederick offered and I was so grief stricken that I accepted without thinking. What a terrible thing to do to a friend." Timothy Harville's statement did not tell which thing was so terrible nor which friend he meant. The two men sat quietly, watching the fire and thinking.

James gave himself over to thoughts of Fanny. He had become aware that his grief was easing, not a great deal, but enough to notice. The ache that had come upon learning of his fiancee's death did not make itself known upon waking and stay until sleep came, as it had for so many months. There were times he shocked himself with the realisation that he had not thought of her for hours, that he had read and laughed with the Harville children or gone for a walk alone without the dull grieving ache.

As Benwick occupied himself with thoughts of a philosophical turn, Timothy Harville thought about Captain Wentworth's offer. Frederick was certain that he was returning to sea, and soon. He had asked Harville, if it were possible, could he join the crew as First Officer.

As Harville had shown Wentworth out, the Captain had motioned him out the front door, closing it behind, he had asked, "Well, Timothy, do you think you can still make it up an accommodation ladder?"

Harville had looked at him with a cocked head, for it was a strange question to ask. "I suppose I could, yes I know I could. Why do you ask?"

"I am certain to return to sea and should be receiving orders very soon. I have no idea what ship, nor any idea of the mission, but I do know that I wish you to join me as my First. Since you are a full captain in your own right, you will have to volunteer. Take a leave of absence and all." Seating himself on a large coil of rope, Frederick had looked hopefully to his friend.

"But Frederick, I would still be on half pay and then gone into the bargain. I'm not certain that would be to Elsa's liking. I'm not certain it is to mine!" Despite his protestation, Timothy Harville longed to be at sea again. And to stand on a quarterdeck under the command of Frederick Wentworth again more than he could have hoped for. Not only because of Frederick's uncanny good fortune when it came to seizing prize, but volunteering would take the Admiralty's eyes from his injury and onto his willingness to serve the Crown. Then perhaps he could have hope of a ship again. His time on shore had been good. He had healed further from his wounds, he had been with his family and mostly, he had been with Elsa.

His wife had always amazed him, her fortitude in living the life of a seaman's wife. It was hard and lonely, but she only grew finer in the bargain. She had endured the long separations, even having one of their children without him knowing she was expecting. She had nursed his sister through her illness and ultimate death, she had seen him injured and thrown ashore at half pay with no certain knowledge that things would ever be better. No, he was grateful that he had been home with her.

"Your pay will be full-pay, I shall see to that and while I cannot promise any prize, I am certain that we will have some opportunities to enrich ourselves; things always seem to present themselves." As he had said this, he had given Harville a meaningful look. He had yet to take a cruise without having something to tow home and present to the prize court.

Timothy smiled, Frederick's confidence was very nearly as alarming as it had been years ago, when they were both much younger and much hungrier for prize. As a point of curiosity, he asked, "When did all this occur? You were just put ashore in September. It seems odd that you should get something so soon when there are others going begging."

"Well, to tell the truth . . ." Frederick stopped. He still felt deceitful in the whole of the matter. It bothered him that he could use the unfortunate circumstances of the Locke family to wheedle himself a command just so he could leave his own unfortunate circumstances behind. "To tell you the truth, Timothy, I am a little surprised myself, but before we go rejoicing too much, I have no idea what ship I will have nor the assignment. This may just be the sail that cops me, who can tell?"

Timothy laughed a little at the sentiment of his friend. "You are not generally given to such brown thoughts, my friend. No, I imagine you will have a long and profitable career, no being knocked on the head for you. You'll hoist your flag one day, mark my words! That is why I will give you a yes to this proposal. I will speak with Elsa, but I am certain she will see the advantage of doing this." He stood for a moment, then smiled at his friend with a pleased, open look, "G-d, Frederick, to be at sea again! I don't mind telling you, I had despaired of it ever happening for me."

They had continued to talk for a few moments. They made the plans necessary to travel to Uppercross the next day, haggling over the cost of a rig. Harville allowed Frederick to win and pay for everything. Only because Frederick wished it and because it would be a strain for the Harvilles.

"Timothy!"

He stared out of his thoughts and stared at James for a moment. "Oh! I'm sorry, I was thinking on something else, what did you say."

Benwick chuckled, he loved Timothy Harville like a brother, but the man was not often given to deep reflection and it amused him to see his friends gaping expression at being disturbed. "I said, when do we leave in the morning? Must I pack now, or can it wait?"

Timothy thought for a moment, so many things had been discussed and he had to search his mind to remember what time had been set. "You will have time in the morning, we will not be leaving until after noon sometime. Frederick is coming to breakfast and will have all arranged by then." There was one other thing that needed saying before the morning. "James, Frederick has asked me to stand with him . . . at the wedding. I know that in some ways the two of you are closer, but he thought . . . well it being a wedding and with Fanny and all, he did not want to . . . "

"I understand. And as for him and I being closer, it is the two of you that are great seafaring men, not me! I think he likes me because I amuse him."

Timothy was intrigued, James always had an interesting way to view things and this might prove to be one of them. "What do you mean that you 'amuse' him?"

"Oh, he enjoys puzzles and riddling, word games and the like. I always try to have something new to keep him attentive. But his mood this evening did not lend itself to any such play. No matter, it will be good to see our old friends from Uppercross again. Not that it's been all that long. I wonder if Miss Anne will be there? I long to talk to her about some of those books she told me of." He was eager to speak with Miss Elliot, not only to express his gratitude, but to talk again with someone who seemed to genuinely understand his grief.

"No, I doubt it. She had been gone to Bath by the time Elsa and I escorted Louisa Musgrove home. She is not related, except by friendship and I do not think that the Musgroves would wish her to be rattling about the terrible roads this time of year. Though . . . Frederick expects us to!" Both men looked at one another and laughed at the irony.

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