Last week, Anne and Harville set out to find Frederick but soon realised they were being followed.

Anne started for the road. There were several things she might say to pique the lieutenant's interest, but nothing sounded terribly convincing. She was also consumed with doubts about the direction they were going.  Would she be able to lead the men and wagon to the cottage, or was this a fruitless endeavour? Her shoes slipped on the sand covered path, jarring her teeth. She slowed a bit and concentrated on her steps. In due time, she had faith; solutions for the other troubles would come.

She stopped just a few feet short of the road. Once she made herself known by stepping onto the roadway, events would be set in motion that could never be undone. For good or for evil, I shall do my part in finding Frederick, she thought as she stepped around the scraggly, bare bushes.  But no one resembling Lieutenant MacMurphy was to be seen.

 "Ahoy, Miss Anne Elliot!"

Anne was startled by the familiar voice, turning towards it without thinking. The lieutenant urged his horse closer. He and his fine bay stood immediately before her, looking down at her. "Out for a bit of an invigorating walk are you?” A gust of wind punctuated his question.

She held her cloak close. "Come, sir, let us not play games. I am no more out for a bit of a walk than you are out for a bit of a ride."

Another gust of wind through the bushes sent a small flight of birds into the air, upsetting the horse. MacMurphy wound the reins around his hand, and wrestled the horse into submission. When he was in control, he smiled and leant on the pommel of his saddle. "Suppose I were to tell you that I have come to take you back to town?" He felt close enough to reach out and touch her.

She looked into his eyes but his casual nature made it impossible to judge whether he was serious or playing a game with her. The time was short and they had no time for amusing exchanges. In addition, there was no time for some sort of misguided, valiant rescue. "I doubt that very much. I suspect we have both come looking for the same thing.”

The mist was beginning to turn into a light spray. "You have nothing to say about me taking you back to town." He glanced up to the sky and back to her. "Which might not be a bad idea." He raised a brow. The horse suddenly took several high steps. "You…" MacMurphy said gaining control again. He looked back to Anne. "You and this brute have much in common, Miss Anne Elliot."

"And what would that be?"

 "You are both quite tenacious, I think."

His attempts to be ingratiating suddenly exhausted Anne. The last days had been more gruelling than she realised. She looked up to MacMurphy. "I am nothing of the sort. In the past few days, I have endured many things I could never have dreamt except in nightmares. At this moment, all I care about is finding my friend." To call Frederick Wentworth her friend was to purposely give the lieutenant the wrong idea. However, there was really no other word to describe their relationship that would not give false impressions to the man, and perhaps, to herself.

He straightened and turned his attention to the horse. It nickered and he spoke quietly to it. Again, he straightened and stared at her for a moment. "Your answer indicates you will not cooperate. And to that I have to say there is nothing stopping me you know. Once I see you safely back with your family, I can return later and search this entire area more thoroughly."

His insistence on this line of conversation was exasperating and she was done with it. "I refuse to go back." She turned to leave.

Before Anne knew what was happening, MacMurphy was off his horse, standing immediately before her. His smile never wavered. In his grey eyes she saw a sort of mirth, but deeper there was an iron resolve to have his own way. She had seen this expression before in shades of hazel. "Miss Anne Elliot, there is nothing to prevent me from calling the men accompanying me, putting you in that saddle, and taking you back to Dublin. Nothing. At. All."More Pleasant Days Here...

Amazon recommended I buy my own book. that was sweet of them.

Now that Conan O'Brien is getting 45 million dollars, will 1) he go away, and 2) will they stop reporting the late night dust up like it's real news?

I read a great quote from Etienne Gilson, a French philosopher, "Piety is no substitute for technique." Good intentions and right motivation do not replace results. And I would say do not make bad fiction good. I just read a Christian novel that is atrocious. It was thought worthy of publication because it has no swearing, no sex, and no sinful behavior by the major characters. It's badly written, both technically and astheticlly, but since it's considered nonoffensive, here's a contract. I know there are plenty of bad books in other parts of any bookstore, but I get tired of justifying terrible work with the notion that the person was doing the best they could.

Sorry, today started badly and hasn't improved much since getting up.

Take care--Susan Kaye

please be praying. My son has filled out the apps for La Cordon Bleu culinary institute, and now it's all about money. He had a financial aid seminar last night but it was canceled because of a blown transformer in downtown. I'm waiting to hear when it's rescheduled. We do know that the two-year course will be 41k--includes uniforms and knives--so that's a bunch of money, plus a job so he can eat while learning how to cook!

God ownes the cattle on a thousand hills, but I need Him to help my son finance the education to cook them!

Thank you for your prayers.

Have a great weekend.

Pleasant Days as usual Wednesday--and boy are you gonna like it!

Take care--Susan Kaye

She remained well out of sight of the door. There was nothing to do but consider and watch. Very soon, a weathered but otherwise fine carriage pulled up before the door. A groom carefully picked his way off the top and tapped on the house door with his whip. The door opened and the groom began to speak with whomever answered. Anne envied both of the parties for life was blissfully uncomplicated when you belonged somewhere.

As she wrestled with her deepening melancholy, the groom broke away and ran to the carriage. He wrenched the door open and did his obeisance. A small woman with fox skin cloak emerged from the house. Following her was Elizabeth, and after her came her father.

The woman with the cloak was undoubtedly their cousin, the viscountess. An enormous hood concealed her face making it impossible for Anne to see her and form any meaningful opinion. The woman was perhaps more sickly than her known age would indicate. She was taking a great deal of time mounting the carriage and this put her sister and father to waiting.

They did not speak. Elizabeth's faultless manners served her well as she stood with perfect posture, looking straight ahead. Her father, on the other hand, could not remain still. Elizabeth was able to ignore his fidgets until he tapped his walking stick against a bronze planter and it rang out in the chill air. Elizabeth did not look his way, but did frown.

Anne's best opportunity was within her grasp, and to her great relief, Sir Walter glanced her way. She saw recognition in his eyes.

Everything wicked and hurtful that had happened in the past few days was nothing for he saw her and she would be taken in. She felt herself smile and her body begin to move of its own volition.

Elizabeth was now disappearing into the carriage and her father’s glance grew cold. He turned, took hold of his hat and proceeded to follow his eldest daughter.

“Father! Father!” Anne hastened to them.

He was leaving her! She called again. This time, he paused, his shoulders sagged, and he straightened, and turned to her.

Anne continued apace. Elizabeth’s face now appeared alongside their father’s. They looked directly at her.

Elizabeth's expression was that of studied disdain. There was, Anne thought, a hint of surprise in her eyes. Her father's expression of chilly contempt brought her to a halt.

Anne and Sir Walter stood staring at one another. Everything about him was flawless. The elegant beaver perched on his head was tilted just so. The overcoat fit perfectly through the shoulders and waist. The perfect weight wool had been expertly dyed to the season's most fashionable colour. The length was exactly right to show her father's well-formed calves clad in stockings of the snowiest white. The picture was finished with expertly buffed pumps on his feet complete with genuine silver buckles just large enough to be stylish. The baronet was the epitome of the perfect gentleman. It was his cold, lifeless eyes that betrayed him as being less than a perfect father.  

Elizabeth and the smaller woman had joined them on the sidewalk. The baronet said to the woman: “You see, it is as I said. My younger daughter is not only stubborn, but rebellious as well. She has endangered herself to go against my express wishes and come here.” To his daughter he said, "Even if she feels no duty to her father, I do know mine. Anne, you will be pleased to meet our cousin, the Viscountess, Lady Dalrymple." The ladies exchanged greetings with Anne acutely aware of her dire appearance.

Lady Dalrymple smiled. However, it was full of pity for Anne’s father and not for Anne’s comfort. She looked to Sir Walter. "Please, do not be troubled. The unexpected arrival of your second daughter will not disrupt the household overly much. We will mange." She touched his arm and turned to enter the carriage.

Sir Walter looked to the carriage and then to Anne. She thought there might be a shred of love in him and that he was considering remaining. He looked to Elizabeth. "Stay with your sister; you will not be missed at the dinner." He stepped up to enter the carriage, but turned. "We will discuss this tomorrow, Anne." He disappeared and the carriage lurched away.

A chill breeze blew and Anne felt suddenly cold to her soul. A footman cleared his throat, drawing their attention to the open door. Elizabeth snatched her arm. “You have wrecked everything, thank you very much!” She thrust Anne inside.

As Elizabeth led Anne through Lady Dalrymple's house, she wondered how her father reacted to it. Everything was just slightly out of sorts and haphazard. The colours of the curtains were too bright, elements of architecture were too large for their context, and what bits of furniture she could see were left over from a by-gone age and more than looking their age. She knew her father’s exacting standards would be violated by the absence of a dignified order.


“You may leave me.” Anne dismissed the maid sent to help her. At first, she hurried through he bath, but the hot water surrounding her began to pull the tension and fear from her body. She was finally warm through, and clean after days of only feeble attempts at cleanliness. The idea that she would sleep in a decent bed tonight and wake to her customary life was at first luxurious. As she soaked, all that became insignificant. Now, when she compared the comforts and the company of her family to Frederick, she would far rather have his company in any dirty cottage, with even old Tomas in residence rather than be where she was.

She rested her cheek against the edge of the copper tub and wondered just where Frederick was at precisely that moment. Surely, he is back to the cottage by now. If that were the case, he would be on foot by now, making his way over the cold and rocky shore south to the meeting place. If he was anything like her, the approach of evening would bring with it hunger. He had every confidence that Harville would be waiting still at the designated inn. One way or another, she prayed that he would be fed, warm, and sheltered soon.

She reluctantly finished the bath and prepared for bed. She had no expectation that she would be required downstairs for the rest of the evening. Her nightclothes were fetched and she was dressed. As the clean cotton flannel warmed against her skin, she felt a pang of guilt that she was safe, and that Frederick was, perhaps, still on the edge of things.

Anne took a seat at Elizabeth's dressing table and the maid began to comb out her hair. There had been no opportunity for Elizabeth to speak until now, and she did not fail to take it. "When we return to Kellynch, you should reprimand your maid, Anne. She packed you nothing but mended rags. The one on your back was the least offensive gown I could find."

The maid just then pulled her hair and Anne yelped involuntarily. To Elizabeth, she said, "What does the condition of my under garments matter? They are clean and presentable enough for just myself." Anne and her sister never saw eye-to-eye on what she was coming to consider trivial matters.

Nothing about Anne's interior life had much changed after Frederick's departure. For quite some time she had fully expected another young man to come along and enliven her heart and mind, sparking within her the same feelings of excitement, anticipation, and adventure that Frederick Wentworth had. However, this had not happened. In fact, this spring, she had noticed small things about herself shifting. This was particularly true after, unbeknownst to her family or friends, she turned down a respectable proposal offered by a young man from Uppercross.

Charles Musgrove was a kind and generous young fellow. He was not handsome or remarkable in any way, but he was of solid character, good family, and was genuinely kind to her. Her refusal could be put down to sheer astonishment. His proposal was awkwardly put, and she assumed it was nearly as much a surprise to him as it was to her. After she had, as gently as possible, refused him, she took some time to walk and to think about what she had done. Even after a time of quiet reflection, she realised she felt neither regret, nor the desire to repeat such and self-conscious occasion with any other man. Something had grown cold in her and it was then she had begun to take an odd sort of pride in her little denials of pleasure. It had started with turning down her favourite food in a meal when it was offered.  Anne was also stinting about her personal needs. As long as her behaviour went unnoticed, she felt safe, but having these little things so obvious even Elizabeth could see was nerve wracking.  

She was startled to notice Elizabeth had taken the opportunity of her being trapped beneath the comb to stand over her. "How you could present yourself to our noble cousin when you are so disdainful of your appearance is beyond me. Honestly, Anne, you are becoming a frump, and now I see it is from the skin out." She stalked off to take a chair by the fire. "I was frankly embarrassed when the maid opened your cases to unpack them."

Her sister was right of course, but hearing it out loud left Anne surprisingly untouched. What did touch her was the invasion of her privacy. She turned to Elizabeth. "Why did you take it upon yourself to unpack my cases? You brought two trunks of your own. You could not possibly have needed anything in mine."

Elizabeth hesitated. She rose and went to the window. "Because, it was thought all the cases and trucks were mine. It would have looked ridiculous if I had not unpacked all of them." She grew quiet and intent upon looking out the window, and away from her sister.

The maid finished and was dismissed. Anne rose and put on her robe. "I suppose it has been a great burden to bear since Father told the viscountess that I did not make the journey at all, and that I am a reprobate child who would dare to come across the channel on my own."

"What else was he to say when you went off with that pirate? How were we to present ourselves to Lady Dalrymple? ‘You see, Cousin, Anne chose to leave us for the company of a masked bandit of the sea.'"

"I did not leave you and father, and I did not go off of my own accord. What would have been wrong with telling her the truth?"

"What precisely is the truth, sister? We were told that when you were taken from us you allowed yourself to be locked in a room with that horrible man with the disgusting black kerchief. When we were released, we were told you were seen rowing off with him and his colleague. I hope he was at least handsome." She finally took a seat at the dressing table. Her posture remained erect, which suited her angry state.

Anne thought to say he was indeed handsome, but instead, said, "I did not go willingly. I fell overboard and nearly drowned. I could not be returned to the ship. If it were not for Frederick risking his own life to pull me from the water himself, I would have died." Just speaking of it brought back the feeling of the frigid water closing over her head, and the wet clothes, the fetid smell of the hide, and all the rest.

Elizabeth's brow shot up and her posture, if it was possible, became more erect than before. "Frederick! That man was Frederick Wentworth?" Her natural grace never faltered as she rose from the chair and approached Anne. "No wonder you went with him. You have been mooning over that wretched sailor for two years now." She was close enough that Anne could smell her sweet, floral perfume. She was almost certain she could feel the heat of her rage as well.

Elizabeth turned away suddenly. "I can only pray that no one at home will find out about you and a proven libertine cavorting in the wilds of Ireland together."

Anne could not endure her taunts. "No such thing happened! He took care of me. I was injured and he cared for my wounds. He was a perfect gentleman the entire time." She could feel her fingernails biting into the flesh of her hands. “We stayed in a cottage with a family who gave us aide and shelter in exchange for Frederick’s helping with painting and plastering.” The lie about the family slipped out so easily, Anne wondered at her own integrity.

Elizabeth turned on her. "Plastering and painting! Is the story he told you to tell? And why would he bother as he has obviously tired of you and left you off here, besmirched. You might as well have run off and married him two years ago, Anne. The gossip would have died down by now, and there would not be any danger of scandal to your sisters reputations." She left the room, slamming the door behind her.

This is a little story where Persuasion meets String Theory Lite. One New Year's Eve, Frederick Wentworth has a chance to see his life from in a new and unsettling way. Do all roads lead to Rome, or in this case, Anne Elliot? Of course they do! And many thanks to Laura Hile for her remarkable editing skills. Happy New Year to you all.

The professor rose and pushed the tiny bottle towards Wentworth. "Remember, sir, 'time between time' is accessible only one night a year." He lifted his glass in a little salute and finished his port. He turned at the door. "I encourage you to think on these things we've spoken of." He smiled and left them.

Harville picked at the blood-red wax seal on the cork, then held up the bottle to the candlelight and looked at the brackish liquid it contained. "Pardon me, sir, but what rubbish." He put the bottle down in front of Wentworth. "Though I must say I agree with him about you having the ambition and brains to be First Lord of the Navy." He rose in preparation to leave the Great Cabin.

Wentworth took the bottle. It was warm, warmer than could be expected from Harville's handling of it. "Are you flattering me for any particular reason, Timothy?" He closed his hand around it. The bottle also had a curious heft to it.

Harville smiled and went to the door. "Why, yes, Frederick, I am. The First Lord will need a second, and I fancy having the job." He touched his forehead, and bid the captain good evening. Before he left, he asked, "As it is the eve of the new year, shall I send for you near midnight?"

Wentworth rose and pocketed the bottle. "No, Tim, I shall hear the ruction and come up to oversee the festivities."

"I'll try to keep the men in line until you appear."

"Just watch the older boys. It will not due to have Basington's pants set afire again."

"Aye, sir." Harville disappeared.

Wentworth stood before the bank of stern windows, his thoughts churning and fading as did the ship's wake in the black water of the sea. The stars were so thick, the night sky looked dusty with them. If he were in England, the last night of the year would be freezing cold. In some ways, he missed the winter weather over the holidays, but being in the Mediterranean was pleasant enough. No fresh air and open windows this time of year, he thought.

It looked to be the sort of night that made Professor White's assertions about time a possibility. "By my calculations, there are many strands of time that run concurrently with our own,” he had said. “Believing in this possibility is the first step, and then, accessing other strands is the next." It was then the older man took the bottle from his breast pocket and placed it carefully on the table before Wentworth. "The choice of another time is also predicated on desire, my good captain. What we desire most in life determines which of those strands we pursue."

At this point in the conversation, Harville was boggled and merely acting attentive. Wentworth listened with great interest, but was not certain why. It was then he threw out the comment on becoming First Lord of the Navy. "Sir, I have every confidence you are able to accomplish such a thing on your own talent and drive. No, Captain, this tincture opens what I like to refer to as 'time between time.' It is in that fissure we can reach for and touch those desires we cannot achieve ourselves. You know, aspirations completely beyond our abilities, fancies a bit silly to our way of thinking—" Here, the old man had paused and studied him closely. "Or our deepest hopes, blighted by others."

Shortly after that, Professor White left them.

Wentworth reached into his waistcoat and took out the bottle. It was now freezing cold in his warm palm. "What devilry is this?" he murmured.

He went to the light and looked at the flask again. The liquid had transformed and was now amber, and so thick it coated the inside of the bottle. He set it down on the table and went back to the windows.

Wentworth industriously put his mind to thoughts of duty rosters and unwritten log entries to overturn thoughts of aspirations and fancies. He avoided any thoughts of blighted hope.

Later, he found himself, feet up on the table, leaned back in his chair, passing the bottle and its ever-changing liquid from one hand to the other. It was apparent the professor intended that he should take this potion. Wentworth's pride assured him the tincture, and the accompanying palaver about time and accessing desires, was all a hoax. He was certain that if the professor found out he had indeed taken it, the man would have a hearty laugh at the captain's expense. His curiosity, on the other hand, goaded him to explore the man's claims.

He cracked the wax seal on the cork. The wax flaked away easily and seemed to disappear in the cracks of the table. The tiny cork slid out of the bottle's neck easily. Wentworth removed it and put it aside. As he looked away, there was movement. He looked back in time to see it crumble into a pile of powder. The clock ringing the eleventh hour gave his nerves a good shake. He stared for an instant at the clock face, but then was distracted when the liquid quickly began to warm yet again. With the warming, a scent wreathed him and caught his nose. It was not botanical in any way, and it was not of spices. It brought to mind the scent of a woman fresh from the bath. He put the bottle down, leant back in the chair, and weighed his alternatives.

His pride pointed out that to continue with the bewitching proposition of touching the untouchable was foolhardy. The unknown consequences of putting what was left of the bottle to his lips and then swallowing the baffling concoction would prove him an idiot in every way. It was embarrassing merely thinking of Harville finding him unconscious, or worse, after having taken the stuff.

Frederick had made the decision to throw the bottle out the window, and had even gone so far as to open one of them, when the seductive scent stopped him cold. As he looked at the bottle in his hand, tendrils of curiosity began to caress his mind. He had a few fanciful dreams he kept tucked away, but they all involved money and success in his career and they evaporated quickly. It was the allure of blighted hope restored that he was helpless against.

He turned from the window. After taking his seat at the table, he wondered if lying on the bed would be better. He concluded it did not matter and downed the potion in one short gulp.

The taste was wretched, but before he could gag, dizziness hit him full force. Luckily, this was overborne by a falling sensation.

***

The falling and spinning stopped eventually and he felt himself sprawled on a piece of very comfortable furniture. He could hear gay voices punctuated with laughter nearby. A party, he thought. It was then he realised he was not wearing the baize working uniform he'd put on that morning. He opened his eyes—thankful to find the very elegantly appointed room quite still—and found himself rigged out in a fine wool dress uniform layered with thick gold braid on the snowy lapels and cuffs. He fingered the pommel of a brilliant gold presentation sword at his side.

"The footman said you are unwell."

He looked up to see Timothy Harville just closing the door. His friend's look of concern was at odds with the impressive dress uniform he too wore. Upon closer look, Harville was looking plumper in body and more healthy than Wentworth had ever seen him. His cheeks were in fact quite pink. This is a party, after all, Wentworth thought.

Harville brought him a glass of water. "Perhaps it is too soon after your illness for you to be out in society." He handed him the water. "You'll never hear the end of this." He laughed lightly.

Wentworth sat up and took the water. The heavy cut glass reiterated the elegance of his surroundings. He stood, drank the water, and handed the glass to Harville. "I was feeling a bit off, but I feel well enough now." He started to the door. "Shall we return to the guests?" This was the result of his choice to take the potion and he was eager to discover what that choice would bring.

The room shone golden and glittered with candlelight from a huge chandelier over a teeming dance floor. The outskirts of the dance floor were crowded with blue and gold uniforms, some more elaborately embellished than his own. The women with the officers were infinitely more embellished than the men were.

He had no idea where he was and could not help wonder if this was his own home. If dreaming, why not make them as outrageous and otherwise unreachable as possible?

Harville was soon called away, leaving Wentworth free to walk about the room, studying his surroundings more closely. He recognised the faces of old friends and colleagues. He wondered if he had aged any, as a few seemed older than he remembered. Perhaps it was merely a trick of the eyes, or perhaps it was –

A dark-haired woman stood a few feet away, speaking with a well-dressed civilian. He glanced about the room and saw that while all the other women were wearing light, rather insipid colours, she was wearing a brilliant, deep blue. The man with whom she spoke glanced his way. The light, friendly expression faded to a stony glare. The fellow quickly bowed to the woman and left her. Wentworth willed her to turn to him. Before this could happen, Harville appeared at the woman's side. He bent to speak to her over the noise of the music and voices. He straightened and looked about, pointing at Wentworth. Frederick made his way to them.

The woman turned. It was Anne.

When she caught sight of him, she smiled and moved towards him. She took his hands in hers. They were warm and soft. "Captain Harville said you had to rest for a moment." She touched his cheek. "You are pale." She took his arm in hers. "We shall go upstairs to bed." There was no opportunity to study her face as she guided them out of the ballroom.

He paused, enjoying the feel of her hold on him. "What of the party? And the guests."

She turned, laughing. Her eyes were perfect reflections of the candlelight and her smile was as wonderful as he remembered. She wore a thin stole shot through with golden threads. It had slipped to reveal one perfect, pale shoulder. And resting on that bare shoulder was a dark tendril of hair. It had escaped its comb and was quietly tormenting him. "I suppose the host will have to take care of them. What are the other guests to us? The Admiral asked us here so you might rest and recover." She again started out of the ballroom.

His thoughts raced and tumbled as they passed through the cool marble hallway to the stairway. The jumble in his brain came to a full stop when he saw the massive stairway. This was the home of his friend and superior, Admiral Patrick McGillvary. He had been a guest at Belsom Park twice before, but only for a night, and not in the company of so many others. And certainly not in the company of a woman.

They mounted the steps and Anne paused. She leant against him, pressing him against the banister. She smiled as she touched his cheek again and rested her head against his chest. "I am glad to have an excuse to retire. All evening I have wanted nothing more than to have you to myself." As if by magic, she opened his coat and put her arms about him. The thick brocade of the fine waistcoat lessened the pleasure greatly. It occurred to him it would seem strange if he did not reciprocate the gesture.

He could not help notice the material of her dress was undoubtedly very fine, but thin. In all the oddities and surprises of the circumstance, this was most unexpected. If the Frederick Wentworth of this strand of time had been unwell, certainly this sort of affectionate ministration of his wife was the perfect treatment.

He closed his eyes and only half listened as she talked of the party and its guests. The luxury of her resting against him was one in which he intended to take great pleasure. The warmth of her body against his, the feel of her hair on his cheek, and the scent— It took a little time, but soon he recognised the scent from the bottle. It was Anne all along.

***

Wentworth assumed it was because of the captain's illness that their room was on the far side of the house, away from any household activity that might cause a disturbance. This isolation suited him. When they got to the room, Anne disappeared. Wentworth walked about in anticipation of her return. He suddenly felt exhausted. He took off the coat and studied the ornate gold braid. It was clear his counterpart Frederick was very successful. He folded the coat carefully, and then tossed it on the sofa. He took a seat and looked into the dark out a nearby window.

He wondered if Frederick's recent illness was beginning to affect him, or if the potion was to blame. Being fatigued in the presence of the woman he desired most in life was not to be borne. Pull yourself together, Freddy boy, he thought. His head became heavy and he leant back, savouring the quiet of the room and the agreeableness of the situation. Soon he was pondering the lives of these Wentworths. Was this Anne the one he loved so long ago? If so, who was the man she called Frederick? Who was he for that matter, and how did his presence affect their marriage? As he was the one here, and not the other fellow, was he married to this woman or—

"I have sent the maid and your man off for the evening." Anne was taking a place next to him; the room was nearly dark now. She lifted a brow as she took the pin from his neck cloth. She took her time leaning across him to place it on a side table. "Surely we can manage to help one another prepare for bed." With graceful and studied moves, she removed the cloth. Her fingers lightly brushed his chin as she unbuttoned his shirt. She looked up from her task, smiling. "You are quiet tonight."

It was obvious what was on her mind. Wentworth was mortified to find himself paralysed. Expectancy caused his heartbeat to quicken, and the room was growing hotter by the moment. Any other time, he'd have seized such an invitation without hesitation. However, he was acutely aware that this was not another time…

As her expression faded to a frown, Anne looked away. She rose and moved off. "I see you are too tired tonight. I shall sleep on the chaise in my dressing room again."

Without any thought to weariness, he was up and reaching for her. "No, no, no, Annie. No, please, listen to me." He took her maybe more roughly than she expected, but she settled into his arms soon enough. "I was preoccupied and you caught me off my guard. I was thinking about us in the past. About our separation—" This was an odd thing to say for it was strictly not the truth. However, this situation invited oddness at every turn.

Her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed. She bloomed to full anger and turned away. "Will you never forgive me for that?" She was heading to the dressing room and he feared once the door closed, any chance for their happiness would be lost.

He took her by the arm. She halted. He turned her and again took her in his arms. She began to cry. "I was only nineteen. I was frightened." She looked away.

"Shh. I know. You loved me, but you were persuaded to put me aside." He touched her hair and kissed the top of her head. Though he had put it aside years earlier, it touched him to see that their past was as painful to her as it was to him.

"Will you never understand? I was alone in London for over a month. I had no word from you all that time. I was nearly out of money and when my godmother found me. Yes, she persuaded me to come with her." Anne pulled away and looked into his eyes. "I left my family for you. I left everything for you, and yet you never fail to accuse me of this one blunder."

This was not the Anne from his past. This Anne had done just what he wanted. If only he'd had been the man she'd sacrificed for! He would never have accused her, and certainly never carried a grudge. He hoped. "I shall never accuse you again." She started to look away. He stopped her. He could say volumes, but words were useless. He pulled her close and kissed her deeply.

She moulded herself to him as only a familiar lover would. All things of the past and even a certain amount of his present, questions were moot. Anne was his wife in the here and now.

"Come." She took his hand and they went to bed.

***

He woke later, relieved when he felt Anne beside him. He turned to her and kissed her shoulder. She murmured something unintelligible, cleared her throat, and then pressed herself against him. "It must be the new year by now." Her voice was low and raspy from sleep. It was appealing in every way.

"Yes, I think I heard the clock strike twelve a while ago."

Her small hand slipped into his and she put it to her lips. "How do you feel?" He realised he had a headache and said as much. She began to rise. "I shall call for something to be brought."

He pulled her back down. "No, you stay here. I need a drink of water anyway. I shall call." He kissed her as he buried his face in her neck and breathed deeply. The headache was growing steadily worse.

He left her reluctantly.

"Frederick."

Wentworth turned. She leant on her elbow, pulling at the tumble of sheets to cover her. Her hair was mussed and again resting on her shoulders. Anne would always be the most beautiful woman in his life.

"Return to me as soon as you can."

He knew it was ending, and she knew something to that effect as well.

"You know I cannot stay away for long."

He turned and stumbled on the leg of a chair. The falling sensation lasted a very long time.

***

"Captain." A hand touched his shoulder and shook it. "Frederick. Wake up."

Wentworth's head was pounding, and Harville's voice only worsened matters. He reached up and pushed Harville away. "I hear you." He leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands. He could hear a fiddle and pipes playing on deck and the sound of the men dancing to the lively tune. Every muscle in his body ached along with his head.

Harville poured him something and placed the glass on the table. "It's been fairly peaceful, sir. Basington is, as of yet, unflamed." He called for Wentworth's steward and then ordered a meal be brought. "You look wretched, sir."

Wentworth glanced at him. "Thank you, Timothy." He looked at the rough tabletop and saw the dust left from the bottle's cork. He saw the bottle itself just as Harville picked it up. "You drank this? The gunner's cabbage squeezings would be more preferable to this."

Wentworth snatched the bottle from him. He held it between his fingers and examined it. There was nothing remarkable about the bottle now that it was empty. He placed it gently on the table. He remembered opening the bottle and smelling of it. He had drunk the contents but could not remember how it tasted.

"So, were you able to find one of these complementary strands of time the professor is so hot on? Bring the tray on in," he said, to the steward.

A plate of beef and a generous slice of pudding with gravy were placed before him. The smell of it and the thought of its taste turned his stomach. He rose and went to the windows. "Beat to quarters, Harville."

He heard Harville cough. "Excuse me, sir?"

"Beat to quarters, Commander." He didn't need to look at Harville to know the man was mystified at the order.

There was another slight pause. "Beat to quarters, aye, sir." The door slammed and Wentworth was alone.

The wake of the ship was a grey slice through the black water. He opened the window and breathed in the fresh air. He wondered what the weather was for his brother in Shropshire. Suddenly he saw not the dark Mediterranean Sea but Anne Elliot. She was smiling at him. Her hair down and she was dressed in a deep blue dress. He could feel her caress his cheek and then move to kiss him.

Something dropped and rolled on the deck above, breaking the spell.

He'd not thought of Anne Elliot for months, perhaps years.

Voices above grew louder and the door behind him opened.

Anne disappeared into the mist as she always had before. "Are the men ready, Harville?" he said roughly.

"Aye, they are nearly formed up."

"I suppose they are not happy having their celebration cut short."

Harville chuckled. "They are calling you everything but 'sir,' sir."

"The French know our holidays as well as we do, and will not hesitate to attack during a party."

"Aye, sir."

"I shall be up in a moment."

"Aye, sir."

"Harville."

"Yes, Captain."

"What year is it now?"

"Year, sir?"

"Yes, what year is it?"

"1814, sir."

"Ah, yes. 1814. Dismissed, Harville."

"Sir." The door closed.

In August, it would be eight long years since he'd seen Anne Elliot. He had meant to forget her. It was clear to him now that she was unforgettable.

It was time to go up. Wentworth put on his overcoat and scraper and mounted the steps in the gangway. As he made his way above, he took comfort that he would likely never see Anne Elliot again.

Thanks for reading I Had to Laugh. I'm looking forward to the new year and new stories to come.

Take care--Susan Kaye

ckmsjunocom! Johnny, tell the contestant when she has won!

Ckmsjunocom is going to receive not just the first volume, So Rough a Course, in the Mercy's Embrace series, but the second volume, So Lively a Chase, as well. Upon receiving her address, we will be sending out the books, autographed by the author.

We also drew for a second place winner. So, MargaretinVa, you will receive a copy of So Lively a Chase.

If you ladies will e-mail me at susan@susankaye.com with your mailing information, I will see that the books go out as soon as possible.

Thank for playing everyone. There will be another contest in a couple of weeks, so be watching.

Take care--Susan Kaye.

One of the readers here asked, when buying a book, is it more profitable for the author to sell through the publisher or through an online store such as Amazon.

The most profitable venue is selling your own product. Anytime the middleman is removed from the equation, there is more profit. But, I haven't the time to set up a kiosk and sell books. If I did, I would make approximately 10 dollars a copy. (All figures are wide approximations and not exact figures.) The second most profitable avenue is for the book to be sold through the publisher. For me, this is Wytherngate Press. There is no discount--as demanded by most large, online sellers--and you will pay the cover price and shipping and handling. From a sale through WP, I make approximately 5 dollars a copy. When you buy from Amazon or one of the other megasellers, depending on special offers and how you configure your order, you may pay just under the cover price and little or no shipping and handling. I make approximately 3 dollars. If you buy a used copy of any book, the author makes nothing.

This shows how profits diminish significantly as the sales chain lengthens. This is one of the reasons authors are having a hard time. As in most things, about 20% of authors are making 80% of the profits and the rest--who are in standard publishing--are limping along. Self-publishing is becoming popular because the technology is becoming more author-friendly, and the stigma of it being the same as vanity press is easing.

With large chains, you the reader occasionally get a good deal on a book. Stores like Barnes and Noble and Amazon discount heavily new releases whose prices gradually go up once the hoopla is over. You may catch a break on shipping. Amazon is tightening the screws on publishers and consequently writers as they demand, and get, bigger discounts that they may or may not pass fully to the customer.

I'm not complaining about what I make. Who knew that spinning tales in Wide Spot, Oregon, a middle-aged woman could make a groat or two in the first place! My first concern is entertaining you all. If you can afford it, buy from Wytherngate Press. If not, but from Amazon. Heck, if you can't afford it, buy the books used and put me on you, someday-when-I-have-some-money list. You can always read a lot of my work online for free.

Bottomline: I do this because I enjoy it. I like knowing that the words I wrote while sitting in my little room make you laugh, and maybe cry. I depend on the Lord to provide for my needs.* If He deems it, I will have more money. If He deems you need to read for free, go ahead.

In the words of that great sage of Canada, Red Green: "We're all in this together."

Take care--Susan Kaye

Believers need money as much as the next guy, I just have to have faith that my God is good and knows and cares. Sparrows and hairs, you know.

It was not long before Anne noticed more people on the road. Some were walking alone or in groups of two or three. Occasionally, parties were driving large farm wagons. These were usually filled with hay. Passengers took full advantage of the warmth it provided. More often, other vehicles on the road were small carts much like theirs. Sooner than she liked, they were entering the outskirts of Dublin. She marvelled at the bustle of carts, carriages, people and animals clogging the streets. She also marvelled that Frederick was not in the lest bothered by the change from country quiet to city commotion.

Anne remembered the address from her cousin’s letters and Frederick asked a passer-by. “That was obviously wrong,” he said when the directions took them into a section of town completely unsuitable for the residence of a viscountess. They were soon set right and making their way through streets lined with rows of elegant row houses. “I would have expected your cousin to have a grand mansion.” Frederick was making conversation while a cart of chickens and a groom, attached to a highly polished barouche, sorted themselves out.

“They do. My father was somewhat disappointed when the invitation was for town and not the estate. He assumed they wintered in the country.”

“Ah,” was all he said.“Lady Dalrymple said it was small, but adequate.”

He made no sort of response this time.

The groom and the man with the chickens made vile gestures at one another and each went on his way. The stream of traffic began to flow again. They passed a row of houses capped by one that took up double the space. “That would be your cousin’s home,” he pointed out. Anne looked back quickly and saw that it not only took up the space of two houses, but also had a large fence circling the side. It was a very fine and more than adequate to Anne’s way of thinking.

The end of their time together was coming quickly and she wished to speak to him just a little more. “Would it be better to go in through the front door, or should I go in the back way?”

He looked her over, smiling. “Not to be rude, Anne, but I do not believe you could get through the front door no matter who you claimed to be.”

She looked down. It was true. There was not a footman in all of England—or Ireland—who cared for his job, who would allow such a frowsy thing inside his master’s house. “I see your point. There will be a benefit to me using the rear entrance.”

“That is?”

“With the usual tradesmen and such, no one will likely notice you leaving me off.”

“Clever girl.” He turned into the alleyway. “You would make a good spy, Anne.” He was smiling at her as he halted the cart.

“Or smuggler.”

His brow furrowed. “No, never that.” He looked towards the house.

There was a heavyset woman looking over greens offered by a gaunt man with a garish plaid shawl about his shoulders. There were two other young women plucking chickens. They sat on a bench against a metal railing surrounding what would be a stairway to the cellar. There were no other servants to be seen in the back courtyard. A wagon promising fresh and wholesome meats was parked with a man unloading a side of beef from it. Frederick handed her down and she waited until another, younger man, hauled down a crate and started to go inside. “Thank you for watching over me, Frederick.” She offered her hand. There was much more she wished to say, but fear again kept her silent.

He took it with both of his. “It was my pleasure, Annie.” Neither wore gloves and his hand was very cold.

He held hers for some time. “You had best go while he’s still inside.” He leaned closer and touched her cheek. “Don’t let them bully you.” She reluctantly let go of him. “Off with you now.”

He did not wait for a reply, but mounted the cart and tapped the little horse to move along. She watched for a moment, but soon crossed the alley to the house. Had she watched longer, there was a great possibility she might embarrass herself by chasing him down. She walked through the courtyard to the door. There was no one nearby so she went inside by herself.

The heavy woman entered right behind her and asked who she thought she was. “My name is Anne Elliot. My father is the Sir Walter Elliot. He and my sister are staying with our cousin, Lady Dalrymple.”
The woman looked confused for a moment, and then narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know what your trick is missy, but the baronet’s only daughter is right safe upstairs. She grabbed Anne by the arm and began to pull her along. “But we’ll get to the bottom of this scheme. Mrs Tong!”


Frederick slowed and then halted. He saw she had crossed the alley and watched her going into the house. He willed her to look in his direction just once more. She did not. The door began to close when the heavyset woman followed her. The door closed for good.


The hot, moist heat of the kitchen was most welcome. The atmosphere was chaos. A harsh woman's voice called for more pigeons. "Her ladyship has invited another for dinner to even out the table." Anne had given little consideration to how her disappearance would affect her family, or their hostess.

She and the woman halted before a tall, angular woman in black. "Look what I found, Ma’am.” The heavy woman pressed in behind Anne.

There you are." The woman glared at her. As she studied Anne’s clothing, her mouth set in a hard line. "You got no water or comb where you live?" The woman poked at her cheek and then lifted up the cloak. "What's this mess? You was told to wear black if you was to work upstairs." The woman began to pull Anne along as she called for "Mary."

“No, Mrs Tong, this ain’t the new girl. This one claims to be on of Sir Walter Elliot’s daughters.” Honeyed derision dripped from her voice.

Mrs Tong stopped and Anne was pressed between her and the heavy one. The woman faced her and studied her more closely. “You’re an ugly, nasty liar. Sir Walter’s eldest daughter was the only one to make the trip.”

The heavyset woman shoved Anne with her shoulder and sneered when Anne looked her way. She turned back to Mrs Tong. “But I am Anne Elliot. My sister is Miss Elizabeth Elliot and my father—“
Tong grabbed her arm and turned to back to the door. “Shut your mouth, liar.” The woman pushed her out the door, into the path of the meat man. Anne stumbled against him. The door to the house slammed shut. The curtain whipped aside and the heavyset woman stuck out her tongue and then disappeared.

“This house is the worst on the route.” The meat man puffed his cheeks and hefted a huge cut of meat in his arms. Anne opened the door for him. “Thank you, Miss.” He paused. “Count yourself lucky they didn’t take you on.” He nodded his head and went inside.

Anne stood for an instant when she thought of Frederick. She ran to the alleyway in hopes that he was not yet out of sight. She scrutinized the traffic but did not see his tall frame in any of the little carts about the way.

There was nothing to do but go to the front door.

---

I am not posting Pleasant Days next Wednesday, but will be posting from Barbara Cornthwaite's Charity Envieth Not. Drop by, relax, read from this great parallel to Jane Austen's Emma.

Take care--Susan Kaye