January 1816

Earlier, when William entered the room it was warm, but now, despite the roaring fire in the hearth, I shivered. "Annie, I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. But, you must admit, it is my right." His tone was calm and even gentle. It was not the cool temperature, which caused my shaking.

While he watched me closely, my tongue explored my throbbing lip. The taste of blood shocked me and I went to the basin. Wetting a cloth, I lightly held it to my mouth. I did not look away from him, which surprised me greatly, even as his glare intensified. Eventually, I did look away to examine the cloth. It was not grave wound, but the sight of my own red blood caused me to shake all the harder.

"I leave for London early tomorrow morning, and I wished nothing more than to spend the night with my wife. Surely you could grant me that." His tone was no longer gentle. Perhaps I had only imagined hearing it in the first place.

I could think of nothing to say in reply. I had seen him angry all to often to doubt he might press further his rights. Several months earlier, he had shaken me and left marks on my arm. I worried that his anger and the violence of his methods were increasing.

I remained silent, but continued look at him. Taken as a whole, the sight of him was almost comical. He stood barefooted, his shirt pulled arrantly from his trousers, and two buttons of his codpiece undone. One loop of the bow of his neck cloth hung nearly to his waist. My husband, the normally well-groomed, well-shod William Walter Elliot looked ridiculous. I examined the damp cloth again. The stain of blood and my quickly swelling lip were all testaments to the fact that while he might look silly now, I was in ever mounting danger.

When earlier he entered my room, it was clear he had not expected to find the baby with me. He was further disturbed, I think, that the babe was at my breast. The current fashion of handing a child off to a good, but low woman, to tend to all the more disgusting chores that infancy presents, is to him a good plan. To me, it is a betrayal of all my natural feelings towards my little boy.

William tried to be charming, and interested in our cosy family way, but he was unsuccessful. Knowing how he felt, as soon as little William was satisfied, I sent him to the nursery. It was shortly after that my husband began his campaign to commence intimate relations.

When I found I was with child the previous April, I was happy and thought he would look forward to the possibility of a son and heir. However, he was not. In fact, he was quite put out by the inconvenience of it all. As the time passed, and my figure increased, my husband was more and more sullen. At the very end, there were bursts of temper that while not surprising to me, were completely out of proportion to the situation. It was a relief to be sent away to Kellynch to prepare for the birth.

Being at Kellynch was as much a relief as it was a joy. Making plans for the baby gave me a great deal of peace and contentment. I had no time to even think about my husband. However, I needn't have worried. There were several thoughtful ladies in our large circle of friends who took it upon themselves to let me know he did not remain idle. He did not lament my absence either, but filled his time with other more pleasurable, social pursuits.

William and I have never been a happy couple. I had my hopes on our wedding day, but it was soon obvious our marriage was not and never would be the love match I had desired. The marriage served him purposes other than covenantal joy. For this reason I thought it unreasonable to expect him to honour our vows. I honoured and obeyed as is expected of a virtuous woman, but as he has pointed out many times, I am terribly ignorant and unappreciative of the more sophisticated ways of our class. I normally despise ignorance, but in this case, I take pride in it. It is my suspicion that bloodying the lip of the woman who has just given birth to your son and heir, would be perfectly understandable to those he courts in such lofty society. I say woman because I have noted that wives and mistresses are transposable to them as well.

We continued in our silent deadlock. He has only been here four days, and he has caused me no end of pain and anxiety. Custom dictates that he allows me a time to heal and a time to bond with our child. Custom dictates, within reason, that I should choose when to resume relations. Thank God he leaves tomorrow. Upon his return to London, he will have his choice of ladies who are not indisposed.  I will submit if only to keep myself safe.

He was still seething, but did nothing more. One of his complaints about Kellynch-hall is he knows the servants hold him in contempt. They favour the "old guard," he says. I believe he means they would not stand by and allow him to harm me. My husband, it seems, is suspicious enough to think murderous servants might take him like an evil despot from his bed, and hang him or something equally preposterous.

Gathering his coat, waistcoat, stockings, and shoes, he said, "I shall bother you no more this evening, Madam." Just before opening the door, he returned to me and came so close his wavy blond hair brushed against mine. "This is not over, Anne. When you are summoned back to Bath, we will discuss this further." Dropping his clothes, he took my face roughly in his hands and kissed me.  He ended it, picked up his clothing, gave me a vicious look, and departed.

Again, my tongue went to my wounded lip. The blood ran more freely than before.

"Ma'am?"

The entry of the nursery maid, Betsy, surprised me. Turning away, I asked what she required as I daubed at the blood.

"The babe fusses. Shall I bring him in?"

"Yes, please. Bring my son to me." The simple act of turning my thoughts away from William and towards our son was a relief.

I took him, dismissed the girl, and brought my baby to the bed.

William was only two weeks old and while there was no fear of him falling, I still pulled pillows about us. They made me feel safe and cloistered. I had to feel safe somehow, and if it was by way of some fabric and goose down, so be it. Besides, the little nest soon grew warm against the January cold, and fears that now pervaded my mind.

I began to nurse my son, examining his sweet little face in the soft glow of a single candle. Almost immediately, I could feel the calming effects of this instinctive and intimate act. Now that his contemptuous father was gone, it was my expectation that we would have a peaceful night's rest.

As he drifted off to sleep, I did as well. After such upheaval, I hoped this night's dreams would wend their way to a familiar, blissful place.

I awakened to find the candle burned down to nearly nothing. Despite the winter chill, I was delightfully warm. My delight cooled when I realised the warmth came from my husband. He spoke quietly next to my ear, in a low, strong voice. He sounded odd, but I was still groggy, and though I tried to understand the words, his voice faded away before I could rally my senses fully. Such gentleness was not usually William's way, but he most likely felt guilty for his earlier actions, and this was his mode of apology. It was just like him; he would seduce me and smooth out the ruffled feathers while still achieving what he wished all along. He is a clever man, my husband.

His hand gently touched my belly, and I realised my thick flannel gown had been removed, leaving me only my shift. The room was so pleasantly warm that we'd pushed away the blankets and the single sheet covering us was pushed down around our waists. Never this winter had my bedchamber been so comfortable. It was almost like summer. I wondered how he could have fortified the fire without my hearing him. William is clever mentally, but his practical, physical skills as a man leave much to be desired. "Tending the fires is the work of servant's," he has said more than once.

In any case, it was apparent he had learnt something new from one of his liaisons. He tenderly pushed aside my hair and ranged kisses across the tops of my bare shoulders. Never before did he tend to me with such affection. He left off my shoulders and applied his lips to my neck.  The pleasure of it was excruciating. Perhaps his guilt was working on him. Perhaps he realised how badly he hurt me. Perhaps he would now dedicate himself to being a good husband. I doubted there would be any change, but I was content to have one night of tenderness at least. Even my lip had stopped hurting.

His hand moved from my belly upwards and the kisses continued. It was all becoming a jumble of the senses that was almost too wonderful to experience. I tried to turn over to face him, but was caught in the sheet and in my frustration, pulled back to free myself.

He laughed a bit, and then easily slipped the sheet away and pulled me back to him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get carried away."

I froze. The low, easy voice was not William Elliot's. It was familiar, but so distant in my past I was hesitant to name it.

I turned over slowly and forced myself to look at the man who raised such passion so easily within me. There, looking down on me was Frederick.

For a moment I was confused, but it could all be so easily be explained away. I had dreamed of him before, and this was just another. Normally, my dreams of Frederick were made up of strangely jumbled, but always chaste memories of our sweet, brief time together. Normally, I would awaken disappointed that the dream was ended. All the other times I would open my eyes and recognise the place, and be flooded with the realisation that I was still trapped in a life that was slowly robbing me of any desire to live it. But none of what had gone before was the case now.

I had awakened, but it was to Frederick's presence and not out of it. In the past his touch in the dream was that of a man respectfully courting a girl, but I was now in his arms as his lover. I was embarrassed that my body ached for him to continue his caresses and kisses. I dreaded more than anything waking from this new, living dream.

Smiling, and rubbing his chin, he said, "Perhaps I should have shaved before coming to bed, but it was late. I know it scratches you if I get too … enthusiastic." He raised his brow and brought me closer than ever. I could do nothing. I didn't wish to. He pulled me against him and began a slow, deep kiss. At first I was shocked and that kept me still. As things progressed, I was surrounded by the memory of the one kiss we shared, nearly ten years previous.

Lieutenant Frederick Wentworth came to Somerset in 1806, to live with his brother, the curate Edward Wentworth, for a time. It took a little while for the introductions to be properly done, but once they were, we fell deeply in love. Very soon, he asked me to marry him, and I accepted. Frederick went at once to my father. Father did not outright deny his permission, but it was immediately clear that he did not think the lieutenant a suitable match for me. Within hours it seemed my godmother, Lady Russell, took it upon herself to make me see reason, and end the engagement. It took a few days of tender, but persistent urging before I could be persuaded to do as they wished. When I told him of my change of heart, he poured out all his fury on me. I was hurt beyond words; though it did not take me long to convince myself he was equally hurt. I eventually came to believe it was his damaged pride that lashed out at me, not genuine disgust. I took comfort in the knowledge that he would be much better off in his navy career without the burden of having me for a wife.

Over the years, through the Navy List and newspapers, I kept abreast of his brilliant career. I tried to be happy for him, but always dreaded the day when I would read an announcement of his marriage. I never did. Meanwhile, a financial embarrassment required that my family retrench. Through a remarkable coincidence, and the cleverness of my father's lawyer, Frederick's sister and her husband had been persuaded to lease Kellynch-hall, my ancestral home. When the new occupants took up residence, the rumours of Frederick's imminent arrival flew thick about our small neighbourhood.  I equally dreaded and anticipated the prospect of meeting my old love once more.

Much to my sorrow, he never appeared. As I heard it, he chose to go to the newly married Edward and meet the rector's new wife. I left the area to join my father and sister, Elizabeth, in Bath, where they had taken a townhouse in which to ride out the economisation. Unhappily for me, when I finally did see Frederick again, it was at my own wedding.

My mind was full at once of all these thoughts and memories. I had never experienced a dream that so competently joined my heartbreaking past with my most secret desire. I was at the edge of abandoning all my powers of reason, and allowing the dream to fully take me over when he touched me with such warmth, so intimately that I knew my body's response was not from any dream.

Pushing him back, I could do nothing but stare.

"Anne. What is it?" He reached up to touch my face and I turned away. "Anne, answer me."

I pulled farther away, trying to move the blankets and pillows encircling us. Before I knew it, I was at the edge of the bed. He moved closer. I was suddenly, unreasonably, frightened that he would physically obtain an answer. "What are you doing in my room? What are you doing in my bed?"

He frowned in confusion. "I was kissing my wife. But I have obviously overstepped myself. Again." His shoulders sagged a bit and he looked away.

He had called me his wife. "I am no such thing as your wife." I backed away.

"What sort of nonsense is this? Anne?" He again moved closer.

I backed farther away, my hand slipped, and I tumbled off the bed.

"Anne!" was all I heard as I fell to the floor.

Immediately, he appeared at my side. He covered my legs as he helped me up. That was when I took full notice of his attire. Or lack thereof. Turing away, I said, "Why are you nearly naked? It is January, and freezing cold." Immediately I knew how ridiculous it sounded. It was more important to know how he came to be in my bed and not worry whether he was properly dressed for the wintry weather.

He glanced down at himself. "It is the hottest summer in memory. Everyone is certain we have been transported to Hades' doorstep. You keep talking utter rubbish." He extended his hand to me.

All my intimate dealings with William Elliot were accomplished under the cover of several layers of linen and lawn, and in total darkness I assure you. It was disconcerting, but equally fascinating to see a bare-chested man, standing before me in his small clothes. Regardless of the desperate circumstance, I could not help but notice that Frederick came out most favourably when compared to the earlier view of my husband.

I stumbled, and he steadied me.

"Carefully, now. Mind the child."

Little William! The bed was a jumble of sheets and blankets and pillows. He must have been covered up. "My God, where is my baby?" I pushed past him and began tearing at the bedclothes. "Where is he? Where is William? What has happened to my baby?"

Frederick leaned close. "There's nothing to worry about." He kindly took my flailing hands and stilled them. "Will is at the mansion. Calm yourself and you'll remember."

"What is he doing at the mansion? He is far too young to be with anyone but his mother. Who is caring for him there?"

"He is five-years-old, Anne; not an infant. That girl you dislike—Jemima, is doing a good enough job of caring for him and his cousin."

Five? Five years old by the way Frederick spoke of him. I still bore the pain of his birth … no, there was no soreness anymore. How could this be? I tried to think, but everything was a muddle. He pulled me close; was the most natural thing to rest my head against his chest. He rested his chin on the top of my head. The act was completely ordinary. I knew it was wrong, but I enjoyed being close and felt strangely protected in his embrace. Then again, how had it become normal for the two of us to be together in any way?

"He is still very young, and I know you worry. But I think him old enough to stay with your family for a night or two." He said nothing more and kissed me.

I was surprised that his kiss was a bit timid. It was not until I allowed myself to respond that he became resolute. Regardless of its beginning, the kiss was like that of the summer long ago. As it had been then, his lips, his caresses and his soft moans made me know he desired me. Me alone, above any other woman.

He straightened. His eyes were bright with anticipation, but quickly clouded. "I'm sorry. How stupid of me not to notice." He took a deep breath and started away.

I followed him, then touched his arm. "What have you noticed?" Blunted desire put an edge to my voiced I'd never heard before.

He held me at arm's length. "Any fool could see you are exhausted. I won't press it tonight. Maybe tomorrow…if you will allow it." He smiled faintly, but it faded quickly.

I could feel the heat rising up my neck to my face. He should see that I wished it, but for some inexplicable reason this man chose to forego intimacy. What I assumed would be an ardent pairing now seemed a mystery.

Leading me to the bed, I did nothing as he straightened the chaos I left after my frantic search for my son. In the minds of many, it was perfectly shameless that I should stand and watch as Frederick made the bed, attired only in his under clothes. In the society in which I moved, certain farcical plays were far worse. Besides, if this did turn out to be nothing more than my own imagination at work, there should be nothing wrong with me observing. Admiringly.

I admired for only a moment. He looked up and smiled, then went back to his work. I was embarrassed me that he noticed that I noticed. It was then I realised how I was attired. By all accounts it was summer and my shift was suitable for hot weather, but not much in the way of cover. I walked about the room to move me away from him.  I studied the room and noticed small changes. Nothing great. It was more ordered than I usually kept it. There was an aridity to the place that seemed foreign. Even so, this unknown life—once I held and examined my darling boy—was far preferable to the one I left behind.

His arm was around my waist before I knew it. "Come on, into bed." He'd laid back the sheet and sat me down. I lay down and pulled the cover over myself. He looked perturbed and waved his hand. "Over you go. You'll not be rid of me so easily." Before taking his place, he fixed another candle in the holder.

Ah, for all his claims of leaving off intimacy, he obviously felt entitled to my bed and me. Again, my only hope was that this was a monstrous dream, and that I could not be held accountable for anything my dream self might allow to happen this night.

I moved over and he came in next to me, pulling the sheet over us. He fixed me in the crook of his arm. This seemed to be all he intended to do. I waited, unconvinced.

It was awkward laying so close to him. There was more light shining and more bare flesh showing than I had ever seen before. Not that it was unpleasant. I liked the feel of his chest against my cheek. The sound of his heart beating was a comfort as well. As I began to relax, I placed my hand lightly on his chest, and he took it in his. He stroked my bare shoulder and I occasionally caught his scent as I began to leave off my worries and drift away to sleep.

I was nearly gone when he lifted my chin, kissed me chastely on the mouth, and said, "Sleep well, Annie." He took his arm from around me, pinched the flame on the candle out, and turned over.

The air cooled my skin where his arms had been and I suddenly felt as if I had been set adrift.  I steeled myself for a seduction, but instead had lost myself in the comfort of his body. And now, though it was ridiculous, I felt utterly neglected. I scolded myself that I should be grateful I was not required to perform any wifely duties, until I ascertained that I was indeed his wife. But he had said as much earlier, had he not? For a very short time I considered how sophisticated the marital duties of a sailor's wife might be. What did it really matter? If this was a dream, how could I require something of which I had no knowledge? All the pondering aside, I was curious as to why he would come to bed expecting nothing of me. "Is that all?" I hadn't meant for it to, but it sounded like an accusation.

He turned over and examined me for a moment. "Well, yes. Unless I can fetch you something."

He expected a rational answer. "No, I am content. I just wondered that you would continue the night in here."

"Where else might I sleep?"

Obviously, Mr and Mrs Wentworths were not concerned with maintaining the usual marital customs, and shared a bed. Every night. "I just thought there was some place else, someplace cooler that you might go. Perhaps your room." To my annoyance, it sounded like a suggestion, and not a very casual one at that.

He sighed heavily and then sat up. His expression was a mix of resignation and frustration. It was clear that his sleeping with her was not quite a settled matter.

"I know it is hotter than blazes, and that practicality along with the Elliot propriety might render sleeping in my room, as you call it, a sensible thing. But," he drew up his legs and cocked his head, "you know I detest that room. It reeks of him no matter what I do. And I refuse to allow you to pitch me out because you think I took advantage of you in a moment of weakness. Granted, I only drew a fiver, but it still beat your draw by two pips." He was serious. They had drawn cards over their sleeping arrangements! The two of them were a strange pair indeed. But, mingled in the serious nature of his look and words was tinge of amusement. It was this playfulness I knew from former times.

The panic I had felt when first waking was gone. Though this place was completely familiar to me, I was a complete stranger, but I wished to stay anywise. "You're right, I should stick to our bargain, and not try to get out of it."

"And," he said, coming near, "You…should…also…be…asleep." With each word, he came nearer, kissing the tip of my nose at "asleep." He drew back just a hair's breadth away.

His brown eyes studied mine and his breath caressed my lips and cheeks. It was a moment I had dreamed of often, and perhaps was dreaming now. The only natural thing was to touch him.  Just a light stroke of my fingers on his jaw, and he gave in and kissed me with nothing resembling timidity.

Certainly, he must have thought I was mad. I clung to him as if I was shipwrecked, frightened of the next wave washing me away. I was terrified. Terrified that whatever storm had brought me to this place would cast me back in the arms of William Walter Elliot. Suddenly, I was in agony at the thought of being without Frederick. If I poured as much of myself into this one act as possible he would never know of these strange events, but he would know this particular woman loved him, and desired him very much.

Reluctantly, we pulled away from one another. There was just enough moonlight that I could see he was thinking. His admonitions that I needed sleep were no doubt battling with his physical desires. His better nature won. "If we continue there will be no sleep for us tonight."

"You didn't seem to mind the idea earlier."

He turned over and began to pick at the fabric of my shift. "True, but had that stratagem been successful, we would be asleep by now." His weak reasoning was allowed to float off in the warm night air. He remained quiet, but stroked my arm from a little distance. Moving closer, he took me in the crook of his arm again, then rested his open palm on my stomach.

I couldn't see his face clearly now, but his breathing was growing deep and even. I needed to understand something he'd said. "Earlier, when you helped up, you said, 'mind the child.' Did you mean our baby?" If I dreamed that Frederick was my husband, and that William was five-years-old, it would not be unexpected I would bear him a child.

He stirred just a little. "Of course, dear." I could hear the smile in his voice. He gently patted my stomach.

"Of course," I echoed. The wonder of it all was startling, but suddenly I was very tired. Allowing myself to relax more fully against him, I revelled in the dream and the happiness it brought.

I woke and there was no trace of Frederick. The memories of his touch, the sound of his voice, his scent and the comfort of being enfolded in his arms flitted through my mind for a while. As wonderful as it had been, the dream was over. My one consolation was William would have left for Bath by now, and I was finally alone. I would take refuge in my son and hope for more dreams of Frederick Wentworth.

As I rose to dress, my head swam and my stomach whirled with nausea. I was troubled for a moment, for there was certainly no reason to think I was still dreaming. I felt my lip with my tongue, then felt it with my fingers. It was no longer swollen, and there was no wound of any kind.

I pulled a pillow to myself and lay back down. The sheets were terribly rumpled and it was clear I had not slept alone. I was still dressed only in my shift. There were no blankets, and no fire in the fireplace. The curtains were closed but I could see bright sunlight shining on their undersides. I was not cold. I remembered Frederick saying something William being five-years-old and that it was the hottest summer in memory.

Memory. I had no memories of anything in the time between falling asleep on that winter's night in 1816, and waking in Frederick's arms last night. Or was it last night? I had no way of knowing what year it might just now. By taking what Frederick had said about William's age, I was five years past my last memory. I could remember nothing of the intervening years. Was it possible for amounts of time to disappear altogether? Or could I have genuinely forgotten all those years? Or was this really a dream after all? But, if I had fallen asleep and awakened, and then slept again and awakened again in the same place—

"Stop it, Anne!" I rose from the bed and let my head swim as it would. My thoughts were racing and they would not stop. That was when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I studied my reflection for some time and could discern no sweeping changes. My hair was noticeably grey, and there were little alterations to be sure. I looked somewhat older than my thirty years, but none of the little lines or paler skin rendered me unrecognisable. This was just another puzzle to be pondered.

My previous dreams were riddled with wishful thinking and a bit fantastical, sometimes bizarre, not scrupulously consistent. The face in the mirror was that of a woman about thirty-five, certainly there was nothing remarkable there. I had awakened with a man not my husband, but his behaviour was that of a gentleman and not a freak or a beast. The room was my own and it was nearly unchanged from when I had gone to sleep that January night. Aside from a few minor changes in furnishings and colours, it was not out of proportion or misplaced in any way like most dreams. Except for the loss of time—and the presence of dear Frederick—this place seemed less a dream than my own real life.

I pulled the bell and a young girl answered my call. She introduced herself as Mary. It was impossible not to notice her surprise and confusion at being called to my room. Without laying out hints of something strange afoot, I tried to question her as best I could, but found her reluctant to talk. I did ascertain she was the latest in a disquietingly long list of ladies' maids. Good servants are difficult to find in the city, but local families always thought serving the Elliots a privilege, and there was no shortage of willing young people. It would seem that things were not that way in the Kellynch of my dreams.

When I told her I wished to be dressed for breakfast, she looked more puzzled than before. Her startled expression in answer to every enquiry was tiresome, but I accounted that to her being nervous. I endeavoured to keep the poor thing to the task at hand, but this was difficult. When she wasn't stuttering her answers to simple questions, she was dropping things. Nothing of value was broken, but I was surprised that in dreams all the rules of gravity seemed to be in place.

Not through any fault of the girl, it took quite some time to find a dress. Standing before the closet, I thought I must be in mourning. Well, half mourning at least. I despaired as the girl went through dress after dress. Each was drearier than the last, and it was not until she displayed a deep, emerald green frock that I felt there might be a chance of finding something more uplifting than crepe and flannel.

When I took the dress, and commented lavishly on its colour and cut, the girl gave no opinion, but merely nodded. I wondered if there was a particular reason this one was deep, almost hidden in the back of the closet.  I dismissed Mary as soon as I was dressed.

The gown's intense colour suited me perfectly. Around the neckline and at the elbow was a lavish froth of buff-coloured lace. Though the dress was a bit snug—dreams do not tailor for expectant ladies it would seem—I felt more beautiful than I had for years.  I stepped back for a broader view and touched something with my foot. I bent to find a locket that must have fallen to the floor when Mary was trying to help me dress. Inside I found a portrait of a baby and myself.

Suddenly, the dress faded and I could only wonder about my own dear boy. Frederick had assured me William was well. Though this was a dream, I still worried. How could a mother forget her own child, I wondered. And, it made no sense that he should be with Mary at Uppercross Mansion when they lived at the cottage. I could only will myself to be cheerful and think the best. Returning my attention to the mirror, I again wondered why so much of my wardrobe was like that of a widow when my natural inclination seemed to be towards this lovely green dress.

A thought occurred to me and as it grew, I could only watch the fabric of the skirt swing back and forth until it was still. Of course I would choose this dress, but there was another Anne. The Anne who was married to Frederick Wentworth—the woman he assumed was in his bed.

I had a counterpart in this place. Or, if time had not just disappeared, a woman who had lived my life as it played out day by day. This woman would also have been married to William Walter Elliot, and would have known his indifference and disdain. She would also have known his growing anger, and how he was beginning to violence to control me. To control her.

For this other woman to be married to Frederick Wentworth, William Walter Elliot had to be dead.

The face in the mirror reflected no grief or regret at the thought of William's demise. Though this was the case, the lines I did see were not those from laughter. And there was a decided tendency towards frowning. I only wondered that I'd not thought of her before, or of William's fate in my dream. Giving it all another think, I was most curious about myself as I had become, but did not care in the least about the condition of my departed husband. However, I did hope the death to be peaceful and not painful. But then, this was a dream and no doubt William Walter was actually on his way to town, looking forward to pleasures I refused him at home.

Still, I was curious as to the details, and would, as the circumstances allowed, rise to the challenge of ascertaining them. My mind was lively with questions, and I was grateful the melancholy of my real life was abated for now.

Looking again at the sunny day, I was anxious to smell the fresh air of summer. To my annoyance, the window would not open. My first thought was to find Frederick. Ordinarily I should have called for one of the footmen come up and open it for me, but this was no ordinary day and I wanted to see Frederick. I thought it a perfectly normal request. After all, it was my dream.

Some time in Kellynch Hall's past, an enterprising soul had taken space from the adjoining rooms of the master and the mistress, and carved out a bathing room. The plan kept their comings and goings private from the rest of the household, and allowed the bath to be accessible from either room. As I walked through, I saw no changes in it, but did notice the air was moist and soap-scented. Towels on the floor and a robe hanging from the door let me know the master had bathed that morning. When I walked past the copper tub, I could not help but touch the damp bar of soap lying on a cloth at the tub's edge.

The door to the Master's room was ajar. I stopped and I wondered if I should continue. My stomach twisted in anticipation of finding Frederick on the other side of the door. Propriety required I knock, but anticipation also made me hesitate. He was perhaps fresh from bathing, and though he counted me his wife, I could not say that I truly was. But if this was my dream, and I had made myself his wife—again I stopped my incessant maundering. I had seen him nearly undressed the night before, and surely he was already dressed by now. Again I raised my hand to knock. As I did, wondered if somehow the personal freedom and unaccountability of dreams had corrupted me.

There was no response, and when I put my ear to the door I heard voices. His man was still in attendance. I thought briefly of William's sour-faced valet and how his presence in the house always caused discord. The door was not pulled fully shut and I looked in.

Frederick stood before his mirror shirtless, in a pair of black trousers and stockings. "That will be all," he said, taking a shirt from a pair of disembodied hands. "I shall be down directly." Shaking open the garment, he raised it over his head and its snowy whiteness covered him as it fell gently into place. Everything I needed to say left my head as I watched him tuck in the shirt. Just as he was beginning to button it up, a floorboard squeaked.