 
# PASSPORT

## Excerpts from Six Historical Adventures

### Vernanne Bryan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

# Contents

Fields of Gold

Title Page | Passport | Epigraph | Prologue | Part I | Chapter I | Chapter II

To Key A Marquis

Title Page | Passport | About To Key A Marquis | Prologue | Chapter I | Chapter II

Sublime Intervention

Title Page | Passport | About Sublime Intervention | Prologue | Chapter I | Chapter II

Tangled in His Glory

Title Page | Passport | Epigraph | Prologue | Chapter I | Chapter II

When The Morning Comes In Heaven

Title Page | Passport | Book I | Prologue | Chapter I | Chapter II

The Skull of Sidon

Title Page | Passport | Dedication | The Prologue | The 12th Century | Chapter I | Chapter II

Author's Note

Coming in 2015

# FIELDS OF GOLD -PART I

## Vernanne Bryan

# PASSPORT

**_Dedicated to:_**  
**_Your_**  
**_Historical Adventure_**

**_Your Travel Visa_**  
**_" Fields of Gold"_**
_With gentleness I will seek you_  
_I am coming home at last_  
_I 'm done with fields of gray and blue,_  
_and will place them in the past._

_I will wipe away your sorrows._  
_I will take away your fears._  
_I will pledge you bright tomorrows,_  
_that we 'll spend in all our years._

_I will keep you close beside me._  
_No more battles will I fight._  
_I will come to you on bended knee,_  
_and hold you through the night._

_Everyday we 'll seek life's treasures._  
_We 'll find joy as we grow old._  
_You, my love, will be all pleasure,_  
_till we go home to fields of gold._

# PROLOGUE

## A Small Kingdom off the Coast of the Mediterranean Sea

### January 1848

Three men stood by the young queens bed in the royal chamber. Two were tall powerfully built men dressed for battle, the eldest of which was the captain of the palace guard, who stood in a state of restless agitation next to the young king. The third man present was a modest graying physician that had served the monarchy for three generations. It was he who dared to break the awful silence hanging like a black shroud over the gilded room.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," the physician said. "Elena was too frail to withstand the strain of bearing one child, let alone two. I warned you when you bedded her that this could happen."

"Silence!"

Unshed tears hung in the kings eyes as he tore off his helmet and threw it across the marble floor with a clatter. He wore the sweat and grime of recent battle and he ran powerful fingers through his matted blonde hair. The king was heedless of the ever increasing sounds of clashing arms in the palace courtyard below or the nervous pacing of the captain of his guard. Grief stricken passionate green eyes looked down on the pale still face of the woman who lay there. Her expression was finally at peace and free of the pain, fear, and suffering he had seen on it the night before. Her eyes were closed in death, but he would remember the violet color of them until he too lay unseeing in the grave.

One of the guards outside pounded frantically on the chamber door. The king did not stir from the cold place where he knelt by the bed. The captain strode hurriedly to the door and spoke in hushed heated conversation for a few short moments with the guard outside. Their voices rose to an audible pitch and then the captain violently slammed the chamber door shut, bursting forth as he did with a sacrilegious expletive. The king visibly winced at the reverberating noises that intruded harshly into what should have been a quiet sanctuary. He finally lifted his fair head. A dark scowl covered his handsome face and his green eyes flashed in anger.

The older man who had been in charge of the king's welfare for years was not in the least cowed by the thunder on the regal countenance. He turned intense unflinching burgundy eyes into the full fury of those of his monarch.

"Sire, the Austrians have broken through the palace doors. We must hurry."

The barbaric cry that had begun on a battlefield many miles away was now resounding through the palace like the shrill whine of a great wind. It had been that way since the right division of the kings forces had broken and a chaotic and terrible retreat had begun. Soldiers and horses alike had slipped on the blood slick ground and the shrieks of animals and men could be heard crying in death and agony. They had fought for their king and their homeland and for days they had managed to sustain their position. But, in spite of all their valiant efforts, the Austrians had held the day upon the battlefield.

Caught in the melee of the retreat, the king had whirled his great war stallion about and stared at the line of his soldiers still trying to hold a small ridge. Thousands of the invading forces had died; more men came to replace them. Though he had led his army with genius for one so young, in despair the king realized that the outcome was hopeless. He had turned his mount toward the sea then and inch by bloody inch had surrendered up the soil of his kingdom to stand and make his last defense protecting the palace walls.

It began as a murmur in the courtyard; it had risen to an awful chant. This time the news was true. The Austrians were within the palace. The king's valiant forces had scattered like leaves in the wind and the last wall of defense was the palace guard. The clash of arms could be heard now in the distant throne room.

The golden young king grasped his captains arm in the age old ritual of brotherhood and held him bound with blazing green eyes.

"You will save the princesses."

"My place is by your side, Sire."

"There is no one else I would have do this."

"No, you must go and I will hold them back until you have safely departed, my King!"

"There is no life for me now that she is gone."

Still the captain stood with his feet stubbornly braced apart, looking into the fiercely blazing eyes of his friend and sovereign.

"I command you to go, Captain Warwick!"

The king forced the man's firm clasp from him and turned to the physician.

"You have brought the princesses?"

"Yes, my liege, they are here in these small baskets."

The king strode to a delicately carved wooden table that held an ornate gold casket and opening the lid quickly, reached in and withdrew papers. He gestured for the physician to give the captain one of the baskets. To each man he handed two envelopes with the royal seal.

"Leave by the secret passage. A carriage and a small guard of the men you hand selected, Captain Warwick, await you at the end of the tunnel. When you are safely away and quite certain you are out of danger, you must head in different directions. Each of you will be responsible for one of the princesses. You must travel separately to assure their survival. I have given you all the provisions you will need to make the journey to America. Unfortunately, there is only _one_ letter of introduction. The other letters are written for each daughter by the Queen. Captain Warwick, you must be the one to find a second home in America for the princess you escort."

The clash of steel against steel was heard coming down the wide hall outside the royal chamber. The king released a heavy shuddering sigh and drew his sword.

"Go!!"

The physician hastened across the marble floor and pulled back a tapestry hiding a secret exit. Pressing lightly on what seemed like a solid wall, a panel moved inward revealing a winding staircase. As the physician disappeared down the stone steps with the first child, the king pulled a document from beneath the double-breasted vest of his uniform and reached out to waylay his captain.

"You must take this final decree and safeguard it as you would the life of the princess you guard. It is the babe you carry with you that will one day reclaim the throne. She is the first born. Tell the good doctor I know he did all he could for Elena. Godspeed, my friend."

Hastily replacing the panel and tapestry, the king moved swiftly to the foot of his queens bed, hand braced inside the full-basket hilt of his battle worn Pattern sword, just as the door to the chamber crashed open.

# PART I
# CHAPTER I

## The United States of America

### Fall 1864

Garrett stood alone in the mist by the lazy muddy river. Without being able to see into the darkness, he could tell it was stained with the blood of enemy troops. Surprise ambush at the riverain had been the dead's watery fate, and though the killing always sickened Garrett, he was not sorry for what he had managed to accomplish. It had taken him long bog-filled heat-infested days and he had lost plenty of his own men to the older enemy of the South, swamp fever. He begrudgingly felt a sense of pride toward the rag-tag group of confederate soldiers that had slipped consistently through his hands, all the while pulling him and his men deeper into the swamp, sniping and driving some of his own troops to a careless exhaustion that had cost them their lives. Now it was over. He could head back to the main force of Sherman's troops. But he still had to negotiate his way out of the swamp before he lost all of his men. Running a sweaty hand through his dark brown hair, he took one last look at the discolored reflection of the full moon on the tainted river. Hell, that's all he had needed, a full moon! His cavalry would be sniper bait for sure. God he hated war, but he especially despised this part of it. He hadn't been able to comprehend fully just exactly what Sherman had in mind for future campaigns. He only knew what had been rumored that he and the men in his command might be ordered to do. It would be absolute war, and could without much further provocation, fall just short of murder. If Sherman was successful, he could save thousands of lives by shortening the war, but he would break the back of the South for decades to come. What good could all this destruction be in the final analysis to the land that he loved. Turning abruptly into the shadow of a cypress, he called to his first sergeant in a rough whisper.

"Cal, get that Seminole up here to me. I want out of this hell hole by first break of day!"

• • •

Major Pickering was waiting at the edge of the clearing with his young aid the following morning as Garrett emerged from the swamp. Pickering stood with his stocky bow-legs braced wide apart and his rough hands clenched behind his back. It was obvious he had been studying at length the sorry band of exhausted men who had spent the long mosquito infested night pulling themselves out of the muck. Then his searching eyes lit up as they found what they had been looking for and a broad toothy grin spread over his face. He pounded his young aid enthusiastically on the back.

"I'll be damned if he hasn't made it out of that steaming hell hole in record time and with his hide intact again! Slippery as a cotton mouth that kid! Always knew I was right about seeing he made Captain. Uh-huh, yes indeed! Well, wait till he hears I'm sending him to Charleston hardly before he can clean the muck from his boots! Captain Whitney, over here pronto!"

Garrett turned tired eyes to the sound of the familiar voice. Crusty old coot still worries about me, he thought smiling tiredly to himself. Wonder what the hell he's got up his sleeve now. Dismounting he handed the reins to the waiting soldier just as Major Pickering's booming voice bellowed at him again.

"Garrett!"

He was like the elderly officer's son and he knew if he wasn't careful the old buzzard would embrace him, so he quickly stuck out his hand.

"Major Pickering."

Garrett was careful in public to give him the official salute before he stood at ease beside him.

"Garrett! Thank god you made it back, son! I've got a mission for you I think you'll like better than being Sherman's mop up detail. Clean up, get some chow and report back to me pronto."

"Sure thing, Major."

Garrett walked tiredly toward his tent. God a bath and a shave would feel good, he thought trying to dredge up some enthusiasm, if he could just find the energy to make it to the creek. Stopping by his tent briefly for a few items and stripping away his shirt and trousers, he stepped into the sunlight and headed for the water.

A quick half-hour later found him somewhat refreshed and heading for the Majors quarters.

Major Pickering glanced up from the table outside his tent where he had been hastily going over some dispatches. He watched the strong tall figure of Garrett Whitney as he strode into view, resplendent in dark blue uniform with shiny brass buttons, bright braid on each cuff and gold epaulets bearing the rank of captain riding on broad shoulders. A gold and blue sash was bound about a lean waist beneath a wide black gun belt and a Hardee hat was pulled down over his brow. As he walked toward Pickering, the yellow stripes running down both sides of his trousers caught the sun and stood out against the blue of the cloth. When he approached the table, Major Pickering looked up assessingly into intense azure blue eyes set deeply into a face tanned golden by the sun. With fatherly pride he noted the long dark brown sideburns had been recently trimmed, accentuating the pronounced cheekbones and firm angular jaw. His nose was well formed and slightly aquiline and beneath it were generous but tightly drawn lips. He was the epitome of all Pickering would have desired in a son, for he had the air of professional soldier about him, which displayed itself in his quick manner, painfully neat apparel, and rather austere appearance.

Gradually Garrett's stern visage softened, as he stared down at the man who was like a father to him. Long ago, and as the war had lengthened, they had dispensed with official greetings on the now too numerous fields of battle.

"Sorry about the lack of recoup time, Garrett, but I'm anxious as all hell to get you out of this piss hole. Have a seat, man, I've only a short time to brief you."

Garrett sank gratefully down into the camp chair and stretched his long Hessian clad legs in front of him.

"Garrett, I need you to act as an escort for my young nephew. I didn't know until a few days past my sister had a kid. I knew she had come to the South years ago, but I lost all track of her. Seems her kid knew about me, though, cause she told him to find me in case something happened to her. Anyway, I need you to take him to his father's parents in Charleston. I want you out of here and I'll consider this mission a personal favor to me. Here's a map to the place, letters of introduction from me, and all the gold I could dig up at the moment to send with him. Oh, and this is an out of uniform job, okay? You'll find the lad over in that tent near the trees. God bless you, son, and safe journey."

Major Pickering's eyes had suddenly misted over and Garrett knew it was time to leave.

"I'll do my best, sir."

• • •

Just before Garrett reached the tent designated to him by Major Pickering, the flap lifted and there stood a slender boy. On his head was a somewhat mangled slouch hat pulled down low over his ears and from under the brim two mutinous green eyes stared out of a begrimed face. The clothes that he wore appeared to be those for a much older boy, for they were overlarge and emphasized the smallness of his frame. His baggy trousers were tied at a thin waist by a length of hemp and he wore a loose cotton jacket of a huge shirt. He had attempted to roll the long sleeves back, but they still hung way down over his narrow wrists. A battered old suitcase sat near oversized boots with toes that had turned up, due to the lack of weight within them. His face was smudged with swamp mud and the sign of a sunburn showed across the tip of his nose. He seemed to be no more that perhaps a dozen years old, yet the experiences he wore on his face belied his apparent youth. A pensive frown marked his young brow and he looked to Garrett like so many of his defeated countrymen.

"I'm Captain Garrett Whitney, young man. It looks like you and I are going to take a little trip. Got all your belongings together?"

The jaw under the slouch hat tightened and lifted, the green eyes blazed, and before Garrett knew it, he was the recipient of a painfully abusive whack on the shins.

"Ouch! Why you little--"

Before Garrett could finish his sentence a small but determined fist had landed in the middle of his stomach. It barely fazed him and he reached over and grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck.

"What the Sam Hill is wrong with you?"

"I ain't gonna do it and you can't make me!"

"You don't want to go Charleston?"

"Charleston! Who said anything about going there? Are you daft?"

"Last time I checked I wasn't!"

"See here you great big overstuffed blue suit, I ain't polishin' no more shoes or shoveling anymore horse dung and that's a fact! And what's more you can tell Private Crawford he can take his old hard biscuits and fire them at the enemy. He just might win the war, cause they'll kill anybody they hit! Now get your fancy pants out of my way, mister!"

"Who said anything about polishing shoes and shoveling horse manure?"

Garrett could tell by the green eyes and the set jaw he was in for more flying shoes and fists, so he neatly stepped aside as a big curly-toed boot just missed him. The bedraggled refugee lost his balance and landed hard on his rear. Garrett turned on his heel and headed for his tent tossing a final cryptic remark over his shoulder.

"When you're done acting like an idiot you can ask Major Pickering where I'll be! Until then, I'll leave you to Private Crawford!"

Oooooh! There was nothing Esta hated worse than a self-assured ego maniac and whoever he was, he was that! Getting up and brushing off her backside she impatiently swiped at a tear that threatened to course down her right cheek. Nothing in her life had gone right since she'd lost her mama and daddy. She hated this war and she hated it the most because she didn't know really who to hate. Her mama had folks up North and her daddy had relations in the South, and either way, somebody was going to end up hurt or dead like her parents. What difference would it make if one seventeen-year-old girl never saw another day. But she mustn't think like that because she promised her mama she wouldn't and somehow, just somehow she'd survive. Her stomach began to growl and she reached a grubby hand into her trouser pocket and pulled out her daddy's gold watch. Flipping the lid open she noticed the hands almost said noon. Rubbing it on her jacket and reinserting it into her pocket, she contemplated lunch. Private Crawford had given her six pairs of boots to polish just because she stole an extra biscuit at breakfast and not only was she angry about the extra work that many boots cost her, her pride still smarted at getting caught. Well, she might as well get at it, cause she was hungry and she sure wasn't going looking for that big fancy toad. Besides, no matter what, she had to keep up the front of being a boy because her mama and daddy had warned her that girls alone had terrible troubles and her mama had made her promise to hide her femaleness.

"There you are you little thief!"

Esta groaned inwardly as Private Crawford rounded the corner in front of her tent.

"Got those boots done yet?"

"No, and I'm not going to do them!"

With that she grabbed her battered old suitcase and ran, hopefully to find the fancy toad. He was looking better to her all the time. Running with all her might, while managing the awkward bulk of her belongings, she careened past the hobbled calvary horses as fast as her legs would carry her. Private Crawford was hot on her heels and she dared not stop long enough to catch her breath or she'd be doomed. Then it all started to happen, as she rounded the cooks wagon her sleeve caught on the handle of a skillet, the skillet went flying into a stack of tin cups causing them to fly every which way, but not before they had made the most god awful clatter you could imagine. It startled the hobbled horses so bad they began to scream, buck and kick at anything that happened to be near by and one of them broke loose and headed straight for the temporary privy. Somebody hollered at the guy inside, but it was too late and the frightened horse crashed straight into the small rickety door knocking the little building over and the man who had been sitting there into the shit hole. Esta had never seen a person virtually catapult themselves into mid air as fast as that soldier did, nor had she ever heard such foul language coming from the mouth of a human being in her entire short life. She stood there gaping at the disarray around her, totally unmindful of her own plight, until Crawford grabbed her.

"Gotcha now, you little bag of vermin!"

He startled her so badly, she swung her suitcase in the air with all her might and poor Private Crawford didn't stand a chance, for the hard corner of the case neatly cracked his jaw, and he dropped to the ground like a rock. Wide-eyed with the shock of seeing her pursuer prostrate on the ground, Esta looked alarmingly around her to see if anyone had witnessed her actions. But that was about all she had time to do, because the next thing she knew she was hauled up by the seat of her pants and hung precariously off the ground while roughly being shaken.

"Are you finished!"

She recognized the neatly clipped voice of the fancy toad. Her breath was coming in short spurts and the hemp belt from which she hung suspended off the ground was placing unbelievable stress on her empty belly. She tried to open her mouth to issue the expletive that had crossed her mind, but there was no way, so she clamped it shut and sort of just hung there, looking all silly and bedraggled. Suddenly she felt terribly embarrassed and wished for all the world her increasingly red-faced condition would go away.

"Well, speak up!"

Gawd! He was shaking her again and then with a thunk she was face down on the ground. Every fibre of her body ached, her pride was in shambles and worst of all she knew she looked the fool. The rest of it she could deal with, but looking like a fool was just too much. Scrambling to her knees with blind fury she lunged at his thigh and sank in her teeth. It was all she had time to do because in the next instance she had been drug neatly to her feet and two very piercing blue eyes were staring angrily into her own. He began speaking between clenched teeth.

"In all my life I have never met a more ignorant, ill-mannered, contemptuous, brat, nor have I ever seen mayhem concocted in such a short space of time by someone so insignificant! I'm taking you to Charleston one way or another, boy! Now, we can either go easy, or we can do it the hard way, which will it be?"

Esta involuntarily stepped back a few paces. This tall person was turning out to be most intimidating and she didn't like the sense of helplessness he was making her feel. Where was the fancy toad she'd seen earlier? The man who now stood before her was all dressed in buckskin and had a menacing look about him. She quickly surmised she had her hands full and immediately decided on a different approach.

"I want my own horse!"

"What makes you think I want you riding with me?"

"I won't polish your boots!"

"They're suede!"

"I won't fetch and carry for you."

"You're too much of a shrimp to be useful!"

"Are you a good cook?"

"Why?"

"Cause I'm hungry!"

"You make a lot of demands for someone who's just lost!"

Garrett looked at the small defiant person before him and suddenly felt the whole thing was very amusing. He threw back his head and laughed as he parried the reaction he knew by now he could expect. Halting the small fist while still chuckling, he reached for the old suitcase.

"No!" Esta wailed, "Don't take my things!"

The amusement immediately left Garrett's face and anger replaced it, but it didn't last long, for the look he saw on the boy's face was sheer terror and panic. He immediately held the suitcase out to two grasping hands. Attempting to absorb the change he had just witnessed, he laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay son, I won't let anyone steal your belongings and you can certainly depend on me to keep you safe."

For the first time since he had been assigned the task of this child he saw a big grin come out on the boy's face. Nice teeth, he mused briefly to himself, with a little cleaning up I bet he'd be a rather good looking boy.

"What's your name, son? If we're going to be trail-mates for awhile I have to know who I'm traveling with."

Esta pulled the slouch hat lower and adjusted her hemp belt.

"Hector!"

Gawd! Why had she said that!

"Hector, huh? Seems to suit you. Okay, Hector, let's get on with it!"

Garrett began walking toward where the horses stood hobbled.

"I want my own pistol, too!"

"Now, _that,_ we'll have to think about."

"I want new boots!"

"I'll see what I can manage."

"I want a blanket without holes!"

"Done!"

"I want a soft biscuit!"

"Remind me to keep you fed!"

As Esta and Garrett walked toward the copse of trees where the horses stood idly swishing their tails, it suddenly occurred to her that she was about to embark on a rather long journey with a man she hardly knew. That certainly was the problem--he was a _man._ How many times had she heard the admonishing of her mama about strangers and here she was about to saddle-up and take off with one of the most formidable male personages she had ever encountered. The whole idea made her stop dead in her tracks and stare long and hard at the tall man ahead of her, who was reaching out to what she thought must be one of the biggest stallions in the entire world. Lordy, the two of them were a sight to raise the hairs on a chicken and that's exactly what she felt like, a chicken!

"Not having more second thoughts are you?" Garrett asked her as he eased the big grey horse up to where she stood.

"Nope!" Esta retorted, trying not to get a kink in her neck as a result from looking directly at the two of them. She hadn't noticed he was leading a much smaller animal until its head stuck out from under the stallions neck.

"Is that what I think it is?" she asked, feeling her ire beginning to rise again.

"Are you referring to Belzebub?"

"If that's what you call him, but he looks a lot like a mule to me!"

"Well, Hector, that's what he is!"

With that Esta immediately sat her suitcase down and placed her bottom emphatically on it.

"I'm not budging!"

"Now what's the matter with you?"

"I will not traipse around the countryside with you on a mule!"

"The idea is tempting, son, but this is my pack animal. Your horse is saddled and tied to that tree over there. She may not be the most beautiful animal in the world, but she'll take you to Charleston. How about unplanting yourself and mounting up. It'll be hot soon enough and I'd like to make some distance, before the main heat of the day hits us."

Esta glanced over at the four-legged animal by the tree. He was right, she wasn't beautiful, in fact she was the ugliest piebald she had ever seen. Rising reluctantly, she walked slowly up to the animal. "You can tie your valise with those leather thongs hanging at the back of the saddle."

Esta managed to find the thongs he referred to, lifted her old suitcase and slipped the leather through the handles. As she allowed the side of the suitcase to lay against the horse's rump she tied a knot. Meanwhile, the horse flickered her ears and turned her head around to give Esta a once over with unsure pale blue eyes _._ Stomping her rear hooves and whipping her tail in agitation, she swung her speckled rump around pinning Esta up against the tree. Esta squeaked as the air rushed out of her. Pummeling the side of the horse with her fists was to no avail, the mare wouldn't budge and even worse, she could hear Captain Whitney laughing.

"Whoa there, Miss Fortune, back off now girl." Garrett edged the stallion between the stubborn mare and the tree, separating Esta from the animal. Reaching down he scooped her up by the seat of her pants and plunked her, none too gently, in the saddle.

"Now, let's get going. You do know how to ride don't you?" Esta dug her nails in the palms of her hands in indignation. Did she know how to ride! What well-bred Southern woman didn't learn to sit a horse at an early age. She thought of her own beautiful long-legged hunter that had been confiscated by the Confederacy. Wouldn't it take the smug look off that Yankee's face if he saw her in her velvet riding habit and pert little hat adorned with an ostrich plume. But those days were over and here she sat on an equestrian's nightmare trying desperately to look like the boy she wasn't. What had time and the war done to her? Trotting reluctantly after Garrett, she took one last look at the army camp, then clamping her jaws firmly together, she embraced the journey ahead with a determination that most generals would have admired. Little did she know that in the days to come, she would draw on this determination almost to its depletion.

# CHAPTER II

_[In May 1864, Grant and I] had at our front [enemy]generals to whom in early life we had been taught to look_ -- _educated and experienced soldiers like ourselves, not likely to make any mistakes, and each of whom had as strong an army as could be collected from the mass of the Southern people_ -- _of the same blood as ourselves, brave, confident, and well equipped; in addition to which they had the most decided advantage of operating in their own difficult country of mountain, forest, ravine, and river, affording admirable opportunities for defense, besides the other equally important advantage that we had to invade the country of our unqualified enemy and expose our long lines of supply to the guerrillas of an "exasperated people." Again, as we advanced we had to leave guards to bridges, stations, and intermediate depots, diminishing the fighting force, while our enemy gained strength by picking up his detachments as he fell back, and had railroads to bring supplies and reinforcements from his rear._

_I instance these facts to offset the common assertion that we of the North won the war by brute force, and not by courage and skill_

_-Major General William T. Sherman-_

As it was late August, the heat of midday in Georgia was unmerciful. Garrett estimated by the look of his charge that he would have to stop and camp in the shade somewhere soon, or Hector would easily be reduced to a victim of heat stroke. He was still well within friendly territory, in that Sherman had recently positioned his three armies to the west and south of Atlanta. He figured a brief stop would be beneficial, not only for his small companion, but would further enable him to review the orders that had been so hastily handed to him during his short briefing with Major Pickering, and before he had been urged to a hasty departure.

"Whoa there, Saber." The big grey stallion pulled up instantly on hearing Garrett's command. "We'll make camp up there under that big willow tree by the creek, until the noon sun eases down a bit.

Esta was so hot and tired she couldn't answer. Her mouth and throat felt parched and every bone in her body ached. They had been riding straight since early morning and she was sure, that had Garrett not decided to stop, she would have died in the saddle. Unable to care where Miss Fortune went the last few miles, she was delighted to find that the mare found great joy in following the stallion wherever he decided to go. As Saber moved into the brush along the creek toward the tree, Miss Fortune took up a steady pace behind him. Dropping off for a brief moment into the doze that had persisted the last half of the morning, Esta was caught totally off guard when a big branch from the willow slapped her like a tennis ball to the ground.

"Fish fuzz on a bread biscuit!" she wailed. "My horse is trying to kill me!"

She had landed square in front of a pair of long muscular legs in buckskin breeches.

"And here I thought I'd have to scrape your poor melted body off that horse myself. How lucky can a guy get! Did you injure anything, short stuff?"

"No!" she screamed at him.

"Then may I suggest you get up and loosen the girth on Miss Fortune? You might also want to take down that blanket rolled to the back of the saddle and get your canteen. If my memory serves me right there's a spring around here somewhere. Stay here and I'll see if I can locate it. Oh, and by the way, even though we're probably in friendly territory, be as quiet as possible and stay put. You can't tell, Johnny Reb could be around anywhere."

"You're gonna leave me without a weapon!"

"Believe me you won't need one. I'll be within hearing distance."

"But what if I get my throat slit? You wouldn't hear that!"

"Having the privilege of knowing you, in the short time I have, I'm quite certain there'll be some sort of commotion to warn me before you bite the dust!"

Gritting her teeth, she watched his broad back bend low and stealthily slip into the brush along the creek. She was amazed that someone so big could disappear so quickly and without a sound. Looking up from her position of forced landing, she realized she'd better do as Garrett asked, for the ground was hard and she needed the blanket and a full canteen. She had foolishly emptied hers too early in the morning. Grasping Miss Fortune's reins, she tied her to the branch of a long fallen tree that lay half in and half out of the creek. Next she loosened the girth, removed the canteen and blanket and began searching the soft grasses under the willow for a place to stretch out. No sooner did she lay her head down than she was fast asleep.

In the meantime, Garrett had found a secluded spot further upstream where he could remove the papers from their pouch and read them at leisure. The first missive was from Major Pickering advising him that General Hood had attacked Sherman's main forces at Jonesboro and was keeping them under siege until he could evacuate Atlanta. He further disclosed that it was Sherman's supposition that Generals Forrest and Hood fully intended to attack the Union's main communication lines to Chattanooga and Nashville. General Thomas had therefore been sent to Nashville with Schofield's Army of the Ohio to be the major fighting force, which would further be reinforced by other units concentrated there via river steamer and railroad. At this point, Major Pickering felt sure Sherman was going to have to decide whether he would cut his communications and abandon Atlanta, then live off the fertile countryside in a drive into central Alabama or southern, Georgia, or toward the coast around Savannah. Major Pickering further disclosed, that if Sherman headed toward the coast, he feared the rumor of the absolute war sweep he intended to make would come true.

Garrett folded the missive slowly and placed it back in the pouch. Raising his eyes to the warm Georgia sky for a moment he pondered Sherman's choices and with a growing dread, knew without a doubt which course of action the general would choose. Laying the pouch down beside him momentarily he rubbed his eyes with the insides of his thumbs. It was clear to him why Major Pickering had been so anxious to get him out of Georgia. Little did the Major know that in attempting to spare him the horrors of Sherman's plans, he was sending him into an even more distasteful project. Sighing inwardly, Garrett reached in and pulled out the heavily sealed packet that had arrived for him from Colonel George Sharpe by secret courier. Sharpe was head of the Army of the Potomac's Bureau of Military Information and his network of informants had a wide outreach. Wide enough to make Garrett's trip behind enemy lines, to deliver the nephew of a union officer, work for his intelligence agency's benefit. Removing the knife at his waist, he gently edged the blade through the wax enclosure, all the while taking extreme care not to damage the documents inside. Upon reading the orders, Garrett's brow drew into deep furrows. If he involved himself in Sharpe's latest scheme, he would be extraordinarily endangering not only his own life, but the life of Major Pickering's ward.

George Sharpe was a clever man who headed a group of scouting and spy agents that penetrated rebel lines. These men were constantly under the threat of execution if captured. In the early formation of this intelligence group in 1863, Garrett had been approached to join the organization due to his pre-war business associations and ease of movement socially between both the North and the South. Sharpe's orders had reconfirmed the plans of Sherman and Grant to come up with a major strategy to win the war. The generals had agreed the principal objectives of this main thrust would be to destroy Lee's army in northern Virginia and Johnston's in northern Georgia. They would attack simultaneously on as many fronts as possible, not only to destroy their enemy in battle, but to inflict all possible damage to the Confederacy's resources. To Garrett this meant not only the munitions, but the food producing areas as well. Three main Southern "breadbaskets" remained, the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, central Georgia and Alabama, and the ports of Wilmington and Charleston. He was now sure these areas were to be focal points for all out destruction. Such total war had to be waged absolutely, not only to break the Southern resistance but to bolster the people of the North with victories.

Garrett knew that behind this great push, as with most wars, lay the political aspect. Lincoln's re-election in November against an antiwar movement to make peace made the push for successful war efforts imperative. Since he would be traveling through the territories ahead of Sherman's armies, it would be his job to not only relay important enemy locations back to Union command posts, but to seek and destroy as many lines of enemy communication, as was possible, to prevent any advanced notice of the coming of the Union forces. All of this and deliver Pickering's obstinate little ward to boot.

Garrett massaged his aching temples in contemplation of the responsibilities he would be attempting to negotiate. He had thought himself a lucky man if he could successfully deliver Hector to his relatives without giving away his own identity and getting them both killed, but these extra forays into enemy locations made the percentages for accomplishing this task, without incident, rather bleak. He was bound to try, for he had traveled too far to take Hector back, and at worst, the boy might come in handy as a cover. If only he could be certain of the lads cooperation.

Saber nickered softly and Garrett instantly became alert. Shifting his eyes to the gentle knoll that rose further down the creek he caught a bright glint of something shiny in the sun. Moving cautiously toward Saber and placing a hand on his soft muzzle to prevent him from making a sound, he began walking slowly toward where he had left the boy to wait in the shade of the willow. As he approached the camp under concealment of the high brush along the creek, he felt somewhat reassured to see him lying sound asleep on a blanket on the ground. But before he could get closer, a Confederate soldier in a ragged uniform leapt out at Hector and pointed the barrel of his gun straight into his face. Before Garrett could react, he watched with astonishment as Hector, out of what seemed to be a dead sleep and with the speed of lightening let both feet fly, one to the groin of the rebel soldier and the other sent the rifle flying.

"You bloody bastard! I've just spent the most grueling hours of my life on that unsightly beast with a gait like a Jack-rabbit and you have the nerve to disturb my sleep!"

The Confederate soldier was bent over retching as Garrett thundered into camp. Cocking his pistol Garrett placed the cold steel barrel in the solider's bent back.

"Are you alone or are your buddies out there in the bush!"

The tattered soldier lifted his head and turned to face Garrett boldly.

"Lucky for you, Mister, I'm all alone!"

Garrett looked into the face of a boy no older than Hector, who, by his expression, was desperately trying to contain his stomach fluids. Giving into sheer necessity, he bent over and wretched again. Lifting his head and facing Garrett courageously, he stood eyeing the older man with just a hint of fear in his young eyes _._

"Sure you're all alone?" Garrett asked as his eyes scanned the surrounding terrain.

"Yes, sir. My regiment was wiped out about a week ago and I'm just trying to find my way home."

"Where do you live son?"

"Selma, sir. Selma, Alabama."

"Well, you're headed in the right direction. Just keep going west and you should run into the Alabama River. You'll probably know your way home from there."

"You mean I can go?"

"I don't have any quarrel with you as long as you don't cause me any trouble. But I suggest you get tracking before I change my mind."

"Yes, Sir!"

Making that his last word, the young reb disappeared into the surrounding countryside.

"Do you really think he was all by himself?"

Esta was suddenly feeling unnerved by what she had just done.

"Hard to tell, but just in case he decides to come back with his friends we'd better move along. By the way, you'd make a good right arm in a fight."

"Really?"

"Really! Think you can manage to ride that piebald a little further? Seems the longer you sit him the feistier you get and I'm kind of getting used to you like that."

"Think we could trade off sometime?" Esta asked, hoping her newly won admiration would stretch to the fulfillment of favors.

Garrett faked a swing at her rump with his suede boot.

"I'm not that fond of you yet! Now get a move on so we can get out of here."

"Aye! Aye! Captain."

• • •

A week and a half later found Garrett and Esta camped on the banks of the Savannah River. Setting up camp for the two had become a ritual in routine. Garrett would go out and forage the surrounding area for food and Esta would start up the camp fire, always with the hope that Garrett would bring back something other than their steady diet of squirrel or rabbit. It was getting tougher and tougher for Esta to keep up her disguise as a boy. The arguments she was having with Garrett over why she chose not to remove her hat, even when she slept, were becoming more intense. He seemed to have developed an obsession regarding her refusal to remove it and was becoming more testy about her stubbornness in not joining him in a bath, whenever the environment afforded them a water source in which to do so. In fact, he had gone so far as to adamantly insist that at the very next water located, he was no longer going to ask, but would expect such a hygienic endeavor regarding her person. Well, here they were at the Savannah and she lived in mortal fear of how she was going to manage to dissuade him from his determination to see Hector clean. She personally yearned for a long hot bath and would give anything if somehow she could manage it, but Garrett had been very strict about staying out of the small towns they had passed and would only set up their camp in a secluded area near by. She did notice, that on these occasions, he always seemed preoccupied during their evening meal, and as soon as he thought she was asleep, would leave camp and sometimes not return until the break of dawn. When he was like that it was easy to talk him out of washing up and he rarely said anything about her hat the next day, due to his apparent fatigue. Now, here she sat knowing he was going to return any minute and all of her excuses had run out. Maybe if she broke the rule of leaving camp alone, just this once, she could head down to the river and grab a bath before he got back.

She smiled, in spite of herself, thinking back on the time he had sat her down and had given her a serious fatherly talk. It had taken everything she had not to giggle at the stern countenance before her. When it had come to the part about not leaving camp alone, he had placed both of his hands on her shoulders, and told her how important it was for their safety that she remain concealed when he was gone, to stay quiet, and above all, never ever leave the campsite to avoid the possibility of running into hostile elements or getting separated from one another. He had even gone so far as to impose a hokey blood oath, that he seemed to think all young boys held dear, solemnly demanding she swear not to break her promise. Later that night she had laughed into her blanket to keep him from noticing how silly she thought it all was. Now, however, she was going to have to break her promise, because she couldn't run the risk of him finding out she was a female, especially not when she was this close to reaching her father's relatives safely. If all went well, she would manage to get back before he had even noticed she was gone. Then she could show him how clean she was and maybe he would overlook the fact that she left camp to get that way. It was worth the chance.

Rummaging through her case she looked for her one clean shirt, a towel, and the small piece of lavender soap she had managed to salvage before she was forced to leave her home. Finding it, along with her silver comb and brush, and wrapping them all up in her towel, she headed for the inlet in the river where she figured it was shallow enough and private enough to bathe. Lordy, this was going to feel good. The night air was still muggy from the heat of the day and a gentle breeze was coming off the river. Feeling a certain carefreeness steal over her, she nonchalantly reached up and removed her hat allowing her long flaxen tresses to hang down around her waist. With any luck at all, she might even manage to wash her hair. She had been able to keep it brushed, every now and then, but washing it was going to be shear luxury! At last, reaching the place in the river that she had seen earlier in the day, she made a hasty effort of removing her clothes and waded out into the cool water. Fortunately, the river bottom was sandy in the inlet and the water clear. It seemed likely, that if all went well, she would be able to wash her hair too. Sinking down beneath the water, an involuntary sigh left her lips and she stretched out to float momentarily on the surface. Then, realizing she had little time, she dove beneath the water, bringing herself face first to the surface so her long hair fell smoothly down her back and proceeded to scrub every part of her travel weary body. Next she applied the soap to her hair, rubbing the ends firmly between her palms and massaging her scalp until it tingled. Diving once again beneath the surface and then coming to a stand, shoulder deep in the water, she headed for the bank.

While she had bathed, a full moon had risen. As she sat drying her hair in the moonlight, anyone seeing her from a distance would have thought her a fairy princess, so mystically beautiful was her image. Hastily she dawned her clean shirt and groaned inwardly at the circumstances that made it necessary to wear the same old travel worn trousers. Drying her feet and placing them barefoot in the old boots, she dangled her damp stockings over each shoulder. She had vowed she would at least manage to wash them, and she had. Taking her comb and attempting to run it through her long still damp hair, she lost patience and hurriedly gathered it up and twisted it in a knot on top of her head. Glancing around her with a longing expellation of her breath, she headed back up the slope to camp. The pleasure she had experienced in the inlet had been all too brief.

As she came up over the slope in view of the camp she could see Miss Fortune grazing to one side, while directly behind her stood Saber! Turning her eyes to the campsite, she viewed a tall lone figure pacing back and forth in front of the fire. Her heart caught up in her throat. Lordy, she was in for it now! She could tell even from this distance he was fully agitated, because he kept clenching and unclenching his fists as he paced. As she came even closer, she saw a slight tick in his jaw, an all too familiar facial feature of her father when he had been angry. Maybe she should just turn around and go the other direction. Seemed like a wise choice at the moment. Little did she know that in doing so she had caught his eye and as she began to head back to the river bank, a steely hand clamped down over her shoulder, turning her around as it did so.

"Going somewhere, boy?"

"Well, it was such a nice night, ya know, full moon and all, just thought I'd take a little hike."

Esta turned to leave again.

"Just a minute! Where were you while I was gone? You weren't in camp when I got back."

Garrett had turned her around to face him again and she was looking into a pair of angry eyes and a firmly set jaw. There was also that tick again. What was needed here, Esta contemplated, was anger from her. Not just a little anger, but her full blown rage. It always worked with her father. Why not try it on Captain Whitney?

"Now see here, mister!" she exploded, "And just what makes you think I went somewhere?"

That was a really dumb question to ask him. Esta could have kicked herself. Now she'd probably have to answer the question herself. Nothing much got by this male person.

"I expect you to answer that question and you'd better not fabricate your answer!"

Yep, she knew it! She'd blown it for sure! Here she was standing in god only knew where South Carolina defending herself for taking a bath. Not only that, she wasn't herself, no, she was a _boy._ Made all the sense in the world! Sure it did! Her life was idiotic, to say the least. Well she'd be damned if she was going to explain to this arrogant twit why she was clean! Just let him fume and steam till he grew withered and bald from the exertion, for all she cared. She was taking herself to camp, sitting by the fire, having some dinner, and then she was going to place her tired body on her blanket and sleep. He could just go jump in the Savannah!

"Hold on there, mister!"

For a moment Garrett had been somewhat amused watching the boys eyes change from fearful to angry.

"You owe me an explanation and I'll have one now!"

He found himself shouting at a retreating back. What was it about the way that kid moved? Heaven help him! For a few minutes there he had thoughts totally foreign to what he should be feeling! God, was something the matter with him? Shaking himself free of the uncomfortable feeling, he stepped into hot pursuit just before another thought hit him. Why were the kid's socks wet?

Esta reached the campsite with Garrett breathing down her back. This situation was really getting quite impossible. It was hard enough being a very feminine young woman holding on to the demeanor of a young boy, but to also present oneself as a hairbrain adolescent was almost more than she could tolerate. She should have followed her first instinct and clobbered Captain Whitney, but then he had turned out to be more than just a formidable opponent, he was downright much too much--what? Esta couldn't seem to put a name to it. One minute she wanted to bash him in the head with the hardest object she could lay her hands on and the next minute she felt like throwing her arms around him and cuddling up in his lap. What was the matter with her! No male person had ever had such an effect on her. Certainly not the male cousins with which she had spent most of her childhood. They were all older than she and when they had turned into young men, her heart never leapt out of her chest like it did when she looked at Captain Whitney, and he was certainly the most--what? She was always left with uncompleted thoughts that ended with much or most. Much what, most what? Well she didn't have time to figure that out right now, because here came the bane of her existence, bearing down on her with all the aggression of a wild boar.

Esta whirled abruptly and found herself face to face with Captain Whitney's chest. In fact, if she moved forward an inch, her nose would have been _in_ his chest. The scent that emanated from him was a wonderful mixture of his own, combined with leather, horses, and a warm summer night. She stepped away and raised her eyes to his and noticed for the first time the lines of concern in his face and the shadows of fatigue. His mouth was drawn taunt in suppressed anger and the tick was still working at the back of his jaw.

"I'm sorry," she said abruptly, "I won't ever do it again! I was just tired of you pushing me to get clean and I thought I'd surprise you, but all I did was make you angry and worried."

Esta's shoulders drooped. She was suddenly very tired and she sank to her blanket.

"Thanks for the blanket without holes," she muttered half to herself and half to Captain Whitney.

What was it about this kid that made him want to tan his britches one moment and give him a reassuring hug in the next. Garrett could feel his anger waning. God he was tired and he still had a full night's work ahead of him. Somehow he had to make the boy stay put so that he wouldn't come to harm.

"Hector, I thought we had a deal about your whereabouts when I'm gone. Don't you realize we're not exactly out on a picnic? We're in the middle of a war and that leaves me with very little control over what could happen to either one of us. But I do know, that if we take certain steps toward our safety, it will do a great deal to prevent disaster from occurring. What you did tonight was very foolish and stupid."

Garrett squatted down on eye level with the boy.

"Nothing happened to me, I'm okay! And I'm not foolish or stupid. You're the one in enemy territory, not me. I grew up around here, remember?"

Esta didn't like being referred to as foolish and she especially detested being called stupid.

"What makes you think you'd have time to explain that to either a Union or Confederate soldier aiming at a moving shadow in the dark. I've been in skirmishes where the most casualties in my regiment were inflicted by other Union troops. It happens in war, a lot more than it should. Hector, you've got to do what I tell you and don't question it. Trust me to keep you as safe as I possibly can."

"But you go away a lot. I might as well be alone!"

Garrett looked into two very serious green eyes. It was the first time he had seen the child with a halfway clean face. Hector wasn't a bad looking boy, he just wasn't quite what he had imagined his own son to be. His features were too delicate in appearance to come across as the robust youth he had pictured in his mind. But then, that was definitely nothing against Hector, for his appearance certainly belied his spunk.

"There are certain things I must accomplish as a Union officer."

"You mean spy!"

Esta felt a sense of excitement in that prospect. The trip had been pretty dull.

"That really is none of your concern. Besides what kind of spy would I be if I answered all your questions and told you everything. Hey, we'd better eat before that chicken turns to ashes."

Garrett moved quickly to divert Hector's attention away from the issue of his own whereabouts.

"Chicken! How mouthwateringly wonderful! I was sure if I ate anymore squirrel I'd croak. Where did you ever find a chicken?"

"Well, let's just say, that this was one bird strolling along the road that ran into a little _fowl_ play."

"Awh, Captain Whitney, that's not a thigh-slapper, but I can put up with any kind of nonsense for a change in the menu."

Esta crawled over with a big grin on her face to sit beside him at the fire.

Garrett filled Hectors plate with choice pieces of the chicken and reached out to hand it to him. Just as Hector started to take the plate, he drew it away.

"Didn't your parents teach you it's impolite to eat with your hat on at a meal?"

Esta reached out and grabbed the plate. Holding it away from him she quipped, "Yep, but I'm not in a dining room and this certainly ain't no formal setting."

Esta hoped she sounded the belligerent young boy and began to dig into her meal with gusto. She would never forgive Captain Whitney if he wrested her dinner from her and she determined to stuff as much in her mouth as it would hold at one time.

"Whoa there, short stuff! If you continue to eat like that it will curdle your stomach. I won't steal your food. Go ahead and enjoy."

In fact, Garrett had so much fun watching Hector eat, he gave him his own meal, which ended up being polished off in record time. Removing the bandanna from around his neck, he caught Hector's hand just as it went to his mouth to be licked.

"Your manners are atrocious, lad. We're really going to have to have a talk about a few things before you hit civilization again. By the way, just how long have you been roaming the countryside?"

"Nine months, eighteen days and," Esta reached in her trouser pocket and pulled out her Daddy's gold watch, glanced at the time and clicking it shut, she said, "four and a half hours. My Mama died on Christmas day last year trying to get us to a Union food station so we could celebrate by eating on Christmas."

Esta looked over at the tall man beside her. She was overcome with the pain she saw written on his face, so she quickly added, "It's okay, Captain Whitney, I have _you_ now, don't I!"

Garrett looked at the shiny-eyed drowsy child beside him and was rewarded with a heart rending smile.

"You better hit the sack, son. Nothing like a full stomach to make a man want a good sleep."

"You won't go away will you?"

Esta felt her eyes growing heavy.

"Not until I'm sure you'll be safe, short stuff."

Garrett started to rise, but couldn't, because the head in the slouch hat was resting on his shoulder.

"So tired!" Esta heard herself say, before she slipped off.

"I don't blame you, son, so am I."

Garrett reached around and drew the boy onto his lap and leaned back on his saddle nearby. As he did so, Hector's head slid down to the crook of his arm and the slouch hat fell off.

"Well I'll be damned!" Garrett said softly in surprise. "What have we here?"

He stared at the sleeping figure laying in his arms. Then, he took in the shimmering mass of her hair knotted on top of her head, the creamy perfection of her skin, the delicateness of her features in the oval of her face, and the rich lush lashes that lay on her cheeks. His eyes stole further down and he became aware of her form, even as it lay hidden in the folds of her boys attire, it was magnificent, the slim proportions were perfect and the soft previously unnoticed mounds, told Garrett without a doubt, he was holding a woman. Why had he not been aware of this before? He was no novice where women were concerned. How had she managed to fool him for so long? His thoughts of the days past made him grimace as he considered how roughly he had treated her. God, had he actually picked her up by the seat of her pants and slammed her into the saddle. Now that he knew what she was--but wait a moment-- why had she told him she was a he? Looking down at the sleeping form in his lap he sat contemplating the answer to the puzzle for several minutes.

She stirred briefly and groaned in her sleep. It was then Garrett made a decision. Holding her against his chest he reached out for the slouch hat and put it back on her head. Just as he was tugging it into place she reached up and grabbed his hand.

"Don't you dare take my hat off. It's mine and I'll wear it whenever I want. And what am I doing in your lap! Ooooooh! I can't seem to shut my eyes for one blithering minute without something happening to me!"

Esta threw herself off of Garrett's lap and sat glaring at him.

Garrett stood up and dusted his pants with his hat.

"You're okay, Hector, you just fell asleep on my shoulder for a minute, and I was tired too, so I made us both comfortable. Nothing to get excited over. You can wear your hat into purgatory for all I care. I'll not mention it to you again. Now, promise me you'll stay hidden and quiet. I've got some things I've got to do before sun-up."

Garrett headed to the meadow where the horses stood tethered.

"Well I never! That's the most disappearing two-legged bluebelly I've ever come across!" Esta said to herself as she flounced down on her blanket. Now why was her temper all out of sorts? It seemed here lately she was either so angry she could scream or too tired to care. Goodness, it would be good to see Grandpa Ned and Grandma Delia, and hopefully before she went completely bonkers.

• • •

"Pssst! Capt'n!"

The whisper wafted over the night air as Garrett crouched down perusing the town below with his binoculars.

"It's me, Tiny!"

Garrett quietly slid his side pistol from its holster, "Sure it is."

Sliding down the small slope and into the shadows of the ravine, he circled around to the back of the source of the whispered greeting. Straining to see in the dark, his eyes picked out the shape of a man, dead ahead, huddled behind a cluster of dense foliage. Creeping silently up on the lone figure, Garrett cocked his pistol. "Hold it right there! No sudden moves or your life's not worth spit! Now, get up and turn around, slowly."

The man hiding in the clustered shadows seemed to unfold forever as he stood. Anyone not knowing a human of this size would have been somewhat concerned about restraining him with anything less than a 32-pounder.

"Now do ya believe me, Capt'n?"

"Well, I'll be!" Garrett spoke a lot quieter than he was feeling, "I thought sure you'd still be laid up after Cold Harbor. When I heard you were part of that action, I kissed your big hide good-bye!"

"Naw, I took it in the left leg pretty good. Got a chunk of it missing, but I'm so big it just looks like a mouse bit me!"

Tiny let out a wheezing sound that left his anatomy emitting spurts hardly resembling the laugh of a big person. Removing his hat he stretched a huge hand out to Garrett in greeting.

"Glad you made it through that hell. You're one lucky man, Tiny! But what are you doing trailing me?"

"Pickering thought maybe you could use some help gettin' the little guy ta his folks. Hood has finally evacuated Atlanta, ya know, and Sherman's in. God only knows what's goin' ta happen next. How's the activity around here. Does it seem they've gotten wind of the big threat?"

"Strangely enough I haven't seen much counter-activity. I don't really think most of these farmers have any idea what's up. I've managed to play some havoc with their lines of communication between here and Atlanta, and I'm sure it's been of some help. However, the problem with destroying means of communication is its reciprocal. I've felt somewhat out of touch."

"Hard doin' these single intelligence missions, huh?"

"Yes, but then we both know about that. Oh, by the way, my little package to deliver home is a young lady."

"Gawd, Capt'n! When did that happen!"

"I just found out myself tonight. She's not aware that I know. She's concealing her identity for some reason. I hope her reasons are innocent, but then I have to remember she was raised in the South and no doubt that's where her sympathies lie."

"What's she like Capt'n?"

"Like most of the young women in the South today, except she doesn't seem to exhibit the bitterness. She will lapse into rather outlandish speech and behavior for a woman when her dander's up. In fact I can't imagine her as genteel at all."

"I wish I could say that the women of the South were what people claimed 'em to be before the war, but most of 'em I've run into have been terrible bold and unfeminine. They have a lot of contempt for us Yankees. But then, if ya talk with 'em a little while, it kinda puts 'em in a sociable frame of mind, even if ya are a Yankee."

Tiny grinned a big grin that shone even in the dark.

"But then, I've seen some really refined Southern ladies end up marryin' Yankee soldiers that weren't exactly ravin' gentlemen."

"True. I'll be glad to get her delivered to her relatives. The sooner the better. That town down their is entirely too active for this time of night."

The town Garrett had been watching had been relatively untouched by battle. All along the banks of the Savannah the scars of war were visible and yet, at a glimpse, life appeared to be going on as usual. But tonight, activity near the small dock was particularly bustling.

"What do ya make of it Capt'n?"

"I don't know. Maybe we should get a closer looksee."

Creeping further down the bank of the river across from the town Garrett lifted his binoculars and scanned the dockside area.

"Looks like they're loading military supplies. Now, where do you suppose they're taking them? I count at least six small boats. That makes eight all together with the last two that headed down river. They must be supplying Savannah for coastal shipments. Looks like we'd better see what we can do to discourage them. How about a little swim, Tiny. Your leg feel up to it?"

"Shore, Capt'n, you know me, always lookin' for some action. I just happen to be carryin' some dynamite in my saddle bags from a little job I had to do on the way here. Looks like it's gonna come in right handy about now."

"Great! Lets move!"

Garrett and Tiny stripped down to the bare necessities and silently entered the water. Garrett chuckled to himself at his good fortune in having his friend along on the foray. Tiny was an explosive expert and as he watched the man swimming slightly ahead of him through the dark water, packing the explosives in his big hat, he knew tonight would be anything but quiet. Reaching the shore just down river from the dock, the men waded to the bank.

"With the way those boats are all tied in pretty much in the same area, it should be no problem to get at least four of 'em easy. It's gonna be gettin' the last two that'll be close."

"You're on your own with the boats I'm afraid, Tiny. If we don't get the warehouse too, we won't be creating much of a problem for them. That's my job. I'll torch the storage building first. That will pull everybody off the wharf to fight the fire and give you a better chance to blow all six vessels. Give me a ten minute head start. If I haven't got the job done in twenty minutes, something's gone wrong. Do what you can to destroy as many of the boats possible, then get the hell out of here. Tiny, the girl's camped in a grove of trees upriver. Get her to her relatives if I don't show, okay?"

"Yes, sir, I shore will! Good huntin', Capt'n!"

As Tiny pulled out his pocket watch to note the time, Garrett slipped into the shadows on the shore. Moving through the deep undergrowth along the land side of the pier, he stopped briefly while a group of burly men carrying wooden boxes moved overhead toward the docked vessels. Waiting a few more moments to assure their passage, he hoisted himself up on the wooden planks of the boardwalk and moved quickly into the darkness of the warehouse. Now, if he could just locate some kerosene and something to start it off with, his part of the mission would be accomplished.

As his eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness of the warehouse, he became aware of voices at the far end of the building. Lifting some burlap off of what appeared to be numerous boxes of the same size throughout the enclosure, Garrett was surprised to note that each box was marked with the familiar explosive warning. It certainly wasn't going to take much to blow this place off the map. Maybe he should find out just exactly what else was in here to better ascertain the overall purpose of the town. Once again, he heard voices, and determined to witness their source. Crawling along on his belly, through what seemed endless twists and turns and the sound of scurrying rodents, Garrett finally caught a glimpse of the light of a lantern wavering in a corner loft of the warehouse. He found himself underneath the base of an old wooden staircase with lifts that were far from supportive for the average weight of an adult man. Much to his consternation he discovered two small boys laughing and conversing over a light source just large enough to illuminate their small faces.

Now what was he going to do. His time was running out, and the longer he stayed, the greater the possibility of discovery. Well, he still had to locate something to ignite the place with and perhaps by the time he was ready, the little boys would go home. He'd just have to hope for the best. Easing back to return from whence he came, he found he was at the entryway to a small office. Pulling himself inside and blinking his eyes, he attempted to take in his surroundings. As things came into dim focus he noticed an old desk in the corner. He could see by the light filtering in through a hole in the black painted window pane, that there were documents lying on top of the desk. His instincts told him that by their shear size alone, they had to be maps or strategic weapon blueprints, in either case he was duty bound to apprise himself of their nature and subsequent value, before destroying the warehouse.

Glancing cautiously over his shoulder to where he could still see the little boys playing, he lifted himself to a full standing position, all the while attempting to keep himself in the shadows. Easing along the wall opposite the window into a better position to view the contents on top of the desk, he leaned somewhat into the filtered light and proceeded to raise the top paper high enough to expose its surface. What he saw was a concise map of the rail supply lines from South and North Carolina being utilized for Lees army in Virginia. Holding the first page aside and raising the second, brought into focus strategic Confederate military posts throughout the Carolinas. This information would be vital to Sherman. Now the problem was, how to get it the hell out of there and eliminate the warehouse. He had approximately eight minutes left.

Decisively, he took the two documents and folded them until they were small enough to fit inside the front of his shirt. Stuffing them in place, he dropped on all fours to the floor and began to ease out of the doorway. Much to his dismay the lantern still glowed, but he couldn't see the small boys anywhere. He stood frozen in the dark waiting to discover their location or assure himself they had left for good. Then it occurred to him, that if they were in fact gone, the lantern was an answer to his prayers. He stood, muscles tensed, counting the seconds as they ticked away. Still, there was no sign of the boys. Waiting for what seemed an eternity longer, he felt satisfied that they had indeed left the premises. Now for the lantern. Somehow he had to make it up those faulty stairs. He was out of time! He sprang into adrenaline-filled action that left no thought processes for analyzing the consequences and tore up the stairs.

As he reached for the lantern, a door under the loft sprung open and three men walked in. Due to the positioning of the upper platform, there was no place for Garrett to hide. It would only be a matter of moments before his location would be discovered. His eyes followed the progression of the men as they came out from under the loft onto the warehouse floor. One of the men turned and caught the glow of the lantern, long before he noticed who was holding it.

"Hey, what the hells a lit lantern doing in here?"

Seeing Garrett's rigid form, the man pulled his gun.

One of his companions turned, grabbing the weapon and shouted, "Are you crazy! Fire that thing in here and we're all goners! Whoever you are, come down here, and don't get the idea we won't shoot if we have to!"

Two things happened at that moment simultaneously. Four large explosions occurred off the dock and Garrett fell through the floorboards in the loft. As he crashed to the ground among flying rotten timbers, the lantern landed a few feet from the multiple rows of explosives, kerosene spilled out and trickled rapidly toward the boxes, immediately catching fire as it did. Looking at each other in horror, the three men raced out of the warehouse, leaving a semiconscious Garrett lying among the rubble on the floor.

To set up your completion of this Historical Journey push this Authors link or search for Vernanne Bryan online:  
Fields of Gold

# TO KEY A MARQUIS

_About the Cover Image_  
"Queen Anne in Her State Coach"

Anne is accompanied by an escort of the Household Cavalry and Yeomen of the Guard. The queen is approaching Old Horse Guards on her way to open Parliament.

# TO KEY A MARQUIS

## A Romantic Adventure of a  
Lady of the Bedchamber to  
Queen Anne

### Vernanne Bryan

# PASSPORT

**_Dedicated to:_**  
**_Your_**  
**_Historical Adventure_**

**_Your Travel Visa_**  
**_" To Key A Marquis"_**
It was a glorious time filled with the passion for intellect and learning. An era where men and women alike could sharpen their wit in the great salons of noble houses, where artists, especially writers, were provided with not only adoring adulation and monetary support, but were often called upon by the government to serve in official capacities.

The reigns of William and Mary and Anne (1689-1714) in the history of England were vital years. Though there was political corruption, moral laxity, and internal strife, a dynastic revolution was accomplished, England was declared irrevocably Protestant, and the government supremacy was definitively transferred from the Crown to the Parliament. Ultimately the role of the monarch was reduced by powerful ministers and 1707 saw the last royal veto of parliamentary legislation. But most importantly, these rulers established a wider degree of religious toleration and freedom of the press than had ever been experienced previously. They peacefully united England and Scotland to create a stronger Britain and turned back the attempt of Louis XIV in his quest to make France the dictator of all of Europe; instead England became mistress of the seas.

During the years of Queen Anne's reign, the increased tension of the ongoing political battle between the queen and her lifelong friend, the Duchess of Marlborough, brought an impassioned intrigue to bear upon courtiers, especially those who found themselves pawns in that struggle. Landing in the midst of that controversy would take all of their wit, acumen, and the skill to extricate themselves without total personal destruction, and in doing so, the added requirement of an exceptional ability to manipulate two tenaciously powerful women, hopefully in the furtherance of their own security and benefit.

# PROLOGUE

_All I desire is my liberty in encouraging and employing all those that concur faithfully in my service, wherether they are called whigs or tories, not to be tied to one, or the other, for if I should be so unfortunate as to fall into the hands of either, I shall look upon myself, though I have the name of Queen, to be in reality but their slave._

-- _Anne, Queen of England_ --

1708. Anne sat alone in her bedchamber in the late hours of the night, laboring under a fit of the gout. She was in extreme pain and agony. A sense of disorder was about her as could be said of the meanest of her subjects. Her face was red and spotted and the negligence of her dress only increased the frightful appearance of her mottled countenance. The affected foot was tied up with a poultice and the bandages wrapped around it were nasty in appearance. She glanced up from her private journal where she had copiously been making notes by candlelight and stared at her fragmented reflection in the multitude of small window lights.

_How could such a despicable mortal as myself become one of the rulers of the world,_ she thought sadly. _I am neither beautiful nor extremely clever. I have managed to survive forty-three years in spite of my ill health, outlasting male domination and bullying to become Queen of England, even though I am by nature timid and diffident. Still, as I sit here alone in my chamber, I find myself suffering not only the infirmities of gout, but the mental anguish of the damned. My father was right. Due to my lack of self assurance I have depended too greatly on those with whom I have fiercely aligned myself Sadly, it is only I who have been faithful and loyal to those alignments, while they have shred me of favors in order that I might have the privilege of deluding myself into calling them friend._

She lay down her writing utensil and aimlessly flipped through the pages of ink scrawls in her journal, the majority of which had been made on much similarly lonely nights. Her eyes caught the carefully written name of Sarah Jennings, her dearest childhood friend, and tears immediately filled her eyes. She blinked them back hastily and slammed shut the book of personal recordings. _How many years have I defended our friendship, Sarah, and where has your strong willed intervention into my power taken you now. You never should have abandoned me! Did I not lavish you and yours with great kindness? I made you my Groom of the Stole, Mistress of the Robes, and Keeper of the Privy Purse, all well remunerated, and two of your daughters were appointed Ladies of the Bedchamber. And what of your husband, John Churchill! Did I not make him one of the most powerfully influential men in all England? Did I not consistently back him in all of his wars while allowing him free reign to satisfy his unending greed? Damn you Sarah Churchill! Did I not make both of you into the glorious Duke and Duchess of Marlborough? Why wasn 't that enough?_ She hurled the ink well at the fireplace just as a soft knock came at the chamber door.

"Enter."

Anne attempted to adjust her rumpled appearance. Who dared to disturb her at this time of night! Another soft knock was heard and in painful agitation she shouted out her permission.

"Enter, I said!"

The door came hesitantly open and the tall willowy silhouette of a young woman could be made out through Anne's myopic eyes. "Well, why do you skulk in the shadows, girl? Come stand before me! That is if you have something worthy to say, you impertinent creature!"

Ashley's heart turned over in her chest. She had only been Anne's Lady of the Bedchamber a few months and was still feeling very awkward at court. This had been the first time that the queen had requested she remain throughout the night in a small antechamber next door; a request made only when Anne was feeling indisposed. She moved slowly forward into the dim light of the candles.

"Yes, yes! Whatever is it?" Anne grumbled impatiently.

"Pardon me, Your Majesty, but you asked me to see to your welfare should I hear any noise coming from your chamber."

Anne's short-sighted eyes perused the girl before her. _Ah, yes,_ her mind prompted her, _I had forgotten that the Duke of Marlborough 's ward was still in my service._ She squinted and found that the girl came better into focus. She was suddenly seized with an overwhelming jealously. The strangling emotion only added to her already ugly disposition. She was well aware that Ashley Leighton was highly cherished and adored by the duke and duchess. _Hmm,_ she contemplated, _it could prove quite satisfying to see Sarah and John suffer the same humiliation I have borne under their overbearing tactics._

Sarah had finally pushed her position too far, forcing Anne to banish her from court to replace the Duchess of Marlborough with Sarah's very own cousin Abigail Hill. At Abigail's request, Anne had arranged a secret marriage for Abigail with the results being Sarah's towering rage. Sarah had unwisely retaliated by spreading the damaging court gossip that Anne's regard for Abigail was strange and unaccountable; insinuating that an un-ordinary inclination to her own sex would damage the queen's reputation. Such an insinuation of lesbianism, to be closely followed by the resignations of the Duke of Marlborough as well as Goldolphin, was simply too much of an insult against her strict protestant beliefs and bestowed power as a monarch for Anne to tolerate. Something had to be done to reduce the Churchills unassailable status; a status that she had unwisely and too generously provided. It mattered not that John had proved to be a military leader of great genius; Anne was angrily set on revenge.

The monarch watched the girl squirm in nervousness under the silent scrutiny in which she held her an unwilling captive. _Yes,_ her thoughts raced maliciously forward, _I know exactly how I shall reap my vengeance on the duke and duchess! It 's high time I upheld the church's party, the Tories, against those two presumptuous Whigs! This stupid girl before me shall satisfy certain strong political passions of my own_-- _maintaining the Treaty of Union with Scotland for one and maybe even the seizure of the notorious French privateer, Comte Claude de Forbin!_

The Queen of England suddenly through back her head and laughed, then gave the startled but very beautiful young woman standing before her a most beguiling royal smile.

# CHAPTER I

At last Queen Anne had commanded the Marquis of Windingham to come home from Scotland. A brooding Robert Moncrief stood in suppressed agitation at the bowed head of his Arabian as he gazed out over the sand dunes of the wild coast of Northumberland. He hated Anne's constant manipulations and knew instinctively he was about to be strategically maneuvered again. His late father had compared him to the land, bragging that he was an intelligent man of great destiny, even while complaining that he was wild as the English moors. But with eyes filled with paternal pride, he would go on to express his profound admiration for his son's forceful drive and passion, likening it to the restless constancy of the water of the North Sea. Still to Robert's supreme chagrin, rumors at court claimed it was only his rugged good looks that had once made him a favorite of Queen Anne. Because he had patiently rebuffed her attempts to draw him into a much deeper relationship, she angrily consigned him to a distasteful duty at Edinburgh. He would uphold the Treaty of Union with Scotland in the name of her crown. At its best, it was a precarious service politically. His grim responsibility was to make certain that the riots did not become too serious. Union with England had not set well with the commoners who continued to see it as a sell-out by the Scottish aristocracy. He agreed with them.

Though his mother was a prominent English noblewoman, his father was of Scottish noble birth. Anne had known it would gall him to return to the land where his father had been brutally murdered, tying his hands to any form of retribution. The queen had placed him in a position to constantly test his loyalty to her right of ascension, assigning him to spy on those who still upheld the Stuart line of kings. His father's politics were not completely known to him and relentlessly he chafed at the possibility that Anne knew more than she would ever confide about his untimely death.

In spite of all the queen's harsh conditions, he had remained loyal to Anne. Now she had finally summoned him back to court, even allowing him time to stop at the residential tower at Windingham. His withdrawal from Scotland had surprised him when considering the recent insurgency of Jacobites. Still, Anne had been keenly insistent on her need for haste. However, he was not about to surrender the opportunity to return to his English home to see how his estates had been faring. He had been gone much too long as it was for his liking. The mercurial queen had demanded that he take his time to assure himself everything was satisfactory with his holdings, yet insinuating that awards awaited him at court for his loyal service to the crown. She had not been explicit as to what endowments would be his, but had been very clear that she would privately reveal a new assignment of the greatest import to England's welfare. Unfortunately, most of her deliberately vague missive had left Robert feeling wary.

Now his sharp eyes swept out over the gray sea, up to the cobalt blue sky, settling once again on the okra yellow sand that composed the dunes. It was midsummer twilight and above the crescent of the North Sea horizon a faux sunset slowly spread a dull red tint in the northeast. Black clouds were swiftly gathering across the darkening sky. Robert frowned in remembrance of how quickly the weather could change. A few miles down the coast, Windingham stood on a great knoll of volcanic rock instilling warm thoughts of coming home. With one last glance out to sea, he swung up into the saddle. Grabbing the reins tautly, he threw a dusty black tricorn on top of his head. He had foregone the formal wig he abhorred, leaving his damp shoulder length hair tied casually with a leather thong at the nape of his neck. The collar of his burgundy great coat rested inward on high sculpted cheek bones, hiding the chiseled angle of his jaw and the slight indentation at his chin. He was easily well over six feet in height, still his sinewy well-honed frame sat lightly in the saddle.

For all Robert's physical grace and powerful stature, it was the magnetism of his eyes that could penetrate to the soul under their blue-green hue of intrepidity. If he disliked what he saw, the unfortunate were given a disarming smile, misdirecting any impending adversity. The Marquis of Windingham was also discriminating, wary of false courtly flattery, placing it where it belonged, completely out of the bounds of realistic consideration. Known only to his closest associates, in contradiction to his powerful presence hid the tender heart of the poet.

In easy familiarity, Robert wound his way up the steep terrain toward the palace gates just as it started to mist. Jagged rocks along the byway darkened and glistened with the addition of that moisture. But, Robert was entering the portion of the gravel drive to the giant entry lit by torches, the heat from which burned away much of the drizzle before it could further dampen him. His weary horse finally clambered onto the tiled courtyard. Blazing lights from the festivities inside glistened on the wet tile making him quickly forget the long journey in the inclement weather. With warm familiarity, he surmised that his mother was entertaining; an amiable thought which caused his mouth to spread into a wide boyish grin. The charismatic effect was lost on the groom who hurried forward to grasp the halter.

With impatient booted strides, he accomplished the distance it took to reach the huge brass handles of the tall oak doors leading to the foyer. Before the butler could attend him, Robert easily pushed the massive portals inward, gesturing with an index finger to keep his arrival unannounced. He wanted a moment to privately enjoy his mother's social handiwork before he himself was called to mix and mingle. Knowing she would have invited a wonderful variety of wits, gallants, politicians, poets, and essayists, he realized he had sorely missed the interaction with those who were drawn to Windingham for these elite intellectual gatherings-- assemblies of which could only be found in comparison to the prodigious salons of France. The dowager duchess' incredible _mati ere grise_ was known to many on both sides of the English Channel.

He paused only briefly while handing his tricorn and great coat to the butler, checking to brush away some of his travel-- worn appearance hastily in the floor to ceiling mirrors before heading up the expansive stairwell to the second floor containing the imposing drawing room. Reaching for the gilded doorknob in the center of an ornate medallion, he opened one of the double doors to the reception area just wide enough to see inside the pale green room beneath its high vaulted ceiling. His searching eyes quickly found the familiar profile of his mother gracefully seated before the marble fireplace on her favorite tapestry sofa. In her delicate hand she held a small stemmed glass of sherry, while the other gently fondled one of her two Pomeranians who had managed to coerce his way onto the gray satin of her lap. Her own hair, now completely white, was wired up under a silver pleated fontange and the naughty Pomeranian was nipping at the pale blue streamers of the headdress.

On her immediate left sat Sir Christopher Wren, almost considered a member of the family. Before leaving for Scotland, Robert had commissioned him to take charge of the reconstruction of certain portions of Windingham due to his expertise in the Jacobean style of architecture. His mother had enthusiastically written to inform him that Wren had since received an extensive commission to design fifty new churches in London; an assignment that had greatly pleased Queen Anne. Sir Christopher leaned over and whispered something to the duchess, causing her to flash her glorious smile. She was still comely and her figure lithe for all her advanced years. The smile, which frequently graced her lovely oval countenance brought forth shades of the stunning beauty she had once been. Gazing fondly at her now, Robert wished that his father was alive to share the still sparkling and brilliant personality he had married so many years ago. Tonight, he quickly discovered, she had arranged a delightful presentation of George Farquhar's new comedy, _The Constant Couple,_ and had even somehow managed to obtain the actor Wilks to play the part of Sir Harry Wildair. Glancing quickly about the room, heavily populated with notables, Robert was more than pleased to see that everyone was enjoying themselves.

He slipped his tall frame effortlessly into a seat at the back of the drawing room next to Sir Richard Steele just as the final lines of the play were being spoken. The audience rose simultaneously with applause that was immediate and appreciative. Robert immediately stood at the same time noticing Lady Rutledge had taken a minor role. A look of amusement crossed his handsome face just as Sir Richard touched his elbow in acknowledgement of his arrival. "Lord Windingham, how good to have you among us again! We've been truly incomplete without your sharp repartee."

Out of the corner of his eye, Robert could see Lady Rutledge advancing on him. Knowing her well to be an aggressive rather indiscreet woman, he acknowledged Sir Richard only briefly then excused himself, walking nonchalantly in the direction of a more empty portion of the room. It wasn't long before he felt her possessive hand on his coat sleeve. The aroma of her perfume was heavier than he had remembered. He turned to look at her more fully. The court life she so coveted was having its decadent way with her once beautiful face. She deliberately leaned over her voluminous skirts toward him in order that he might better glimpse her decolletage. The whiteness of her highly powdered complexion had been set off with black patches cut into moons and stars which appeared to orbit around her icy blue eyes. Her full rouged lips were pursed in a little pout. Strangely Robert had once found that pout appealing. "Milady," he greeted her politely, then watched her expression slowly change from flirtatious to simmering anger.

"Milady!! Milady!! Is that all you can stiffly say to me after these many months?" She drew herself closer until his legs were lost within the folds of her taffeta skirts. The aroma of her violent fragrance assailed his offended nose from the heaving bosom she thrust at him. She angled her body in such a way that the tips of her breasts brushed suggestively against his chest.

Reaching up and stepping back, he balanced her chin lightly on his forefinger and lowered his head slightly, bringing his lips in hoped for confidence only inches from her own. "Alvina. I believe we said it all just before I was sent away to Scotland. You decided, remember, you were much too embarrassed to be seen with me at court."

Her face drew into a frown leaving little creases in her heavy make-up. "But, darling, all is forgiven by Her Majesty and we can now take up where we left off. I have really missed you terribly. No man has ever pleased me as much as you."

The little pout was back as she took one of her very high-heeled slippers and rubbed it suggestively on the inside of his now taffeta enveloped leg. Robert felt an unwanted response from his body. An extreme sense of her depravity came over him. Keeping his head bent, he could see no change in her eyes as he hoped she would recognize the depth of dismissal in his own. Still he attempted to bring home his point. "Thank you for the compliment, my dear, but it is your extensive ability to make comparisons that I find troublesome." Lifting his head, he stepped back away from her, realizing full well that if she chose to make a scene she was quite capable of an ugly one. Much to his surprise she only batted him coyly with the tip of her fan.

"Scotland, it would appear, dearest Bobby, has addled your brain!"

Alvina turned to leave but wove awkwardly. He realized she was more tipsy than originally judged and caught her by the elbow as she almost fell. Looking up at him through unfocused eyes, she smiled a crooked little smile. "Fetch me another liquid refreshment, dear boy, I find I'm growing quite thirsty again."

Sudden tears formed in her eyes and he almost felt sorry for her. How well he understood the destructive politics at court. Alvina had voraciously thrown herself into the center of it. It saddened him to come home to find what had once been a beautiful vivacious woman victimized by its addictive power. He knew it had been aided by her own ambition and obsessive appetites. It was obvious Alvina had now become one of its many victims. He helped her to a seat and at her loud insistence, another glass of wine. Turning disconcertedly away, he noticed that his mother had seen him from the other side of the drawing room. Their eyes met briefly across the distance, exchanging their mutual feelings of dismay over Lady Rutledge's poor condition.

Leaving Alvina to her wine, Robert advanced the space to his mother. Upon reaching her and seeing the delighted sparkle in her eyes, he clasped her hand fondly in his own, kissing her lightly on the cheek. "I see you're managing to keep the theatre alive and well in England, mother! If we had to depend on Queen Anne, I'm afraid all our actors would starve!"

Quickly raising her arched brows in feigned shock she quipped, "Ah, yes, Robert, but Anne is managing to bring a higher tone to the English stage and for this alone I'm certain we will all benefit." Glancing up at the tall man beside her she added with loving maternal affection, "You're looking well in spite of the harsh duty Anne has imposed on you. Tell me, did the queen say aught in her letter whether she would finally be willing to acknowledge you as duke?"

"I wish I could be reassuring, but the Queen's letter to me was vague in every aspect except the fact that she has further duties for me to perform for England."

"No mention then that you will once again be reinstated into her good graces?" she frowned.

"Only insinuations that have left me feeling more uneasy than ever. Anne did imply that there would be certain compensations awaiting me when I reached court, but didn't go into detail about them."

His mother's face brightened. "Then I shall take this small morsel offered to you and consider it a positive sign for your reinstatement! The queen, you know, is no longer as tightly ensconced with her old retinue. Sarah Churchill has lost much ground and indirectly because of this so has her husband, the Duke of Marlborough, and his men Robert Harley and Henry St. John. The Whig victory deposed them both last October. Harley, however, continues to influence the queen through his cousin Abigail Masham. I foresee that it will be Abigail who finally usurps Sarah's hold on Anne."

Robert was quickly beginning to remember the hazards of the fluctuating court hierarchy and felt reluctant to return to unsure ground. At least in Scotland he knew most of his enemies. "It'll be amazing if that happens, mother. Anne by nature is a peace loving Tory. Sarah's a Whig. If anything separates them once and for all it will be Sarah's open ridicule of the divine right of rulers which she thinks is so much humbug--and, of course, if she continues to insist that the queen must support her husband's wars."

"You're probably right, dear heart. But I should still like to suggest keeping your eye on the comings-and-goings of Abigail Masham. I also believe Harley's influence is far from over and for that matter neither is St. John's. Speaking of the latter, he has a tendency to be somewhat of an opportunist. I'd advise you to keep his mind off Windingham until Anne reinstates your ducal rights. Windingham is a key location for continued observation of the Scottish borders and there are still a lot of old enmities abounding on both sides. The English government will find it critical to discover just where the new Duke of Windingham's loyalties lie. You must convince them in spite of your Scot's blood it will always be with England."

Robert suddenly felt surly. "I'm well aware of that! If I had chosen to disregard it I would have ferreted out my father's assassins long ago!" he snapped too quickly. He instantly regretted his defensive posture when he saw the look of grief flash across her face. "Forgive me, mother. I'm afraid I take after my father. I've little patience with politics!"

She placed her hand lightly on his arm then, searching his eyes. After a moment she spoke, but her voice had lowered in confidence, "Yes, you really are like him. Because you are I beg of you to be cautious. Trust me, son, when I tell you that Marlborough's power in this monarchy will not last. Bide your time carefully, and remember, vengeance is not ours to administer."

Robert tried to reassure his mother before she turned back to her guests. The thought of Marlborough left him agitated and unsettled. He had never forgiven the man for his vacillating loyalties and his subsequent betrayal of his father. Their relationship had been a prime example of a dangerous political quagmire. One could easily get caught up in such during times like these of constant governmental revision. In ways he didn't want to finalize yet mentally, he found himself agreeing with Sarah Churchill's outlook on the monarchy. The energy behind his thoughts automatically put motion to his feet. He began moving restlessly about the room, responding cordially to those who spoke with him, but intentionally not stopping to intervene into conversations in which he was certain to find an interest.

Robert had almost reached the other side of the vast reception room when it occurred to him that the gathering tonight was representative of the quality of English literary production. At one time or another such literary greats as Dryden, Congreve, Gay, Prior, and Swift had all been patriotic prosers who had shared evenings at Windingham with his father and mother. But now the room was filled with authors whose pens could subsidize the crown. It led him to contemplate more seriously his mother's selection of guests.

Queen Anne, he knew, was indifferent to literature, but her ministers rewarded useful writers in an age when newspapers, pamphlets, coffeehouses, and propaganda could serve the party or the sword. Anne had learned well the power of the press during the reign of William. Robert turned with renewed interest to gaze at Sir Richard Steele. His plans to activate England's relatively new freedom of the press could well be the organized voice of the middle class. Robert suddenly wished he was as free to indulge in such pursuits, but knew he must honor the responsibilities of his heritage. Still, he was beginning to see the way his mother handled this conflict of interest in a new light.

As he looked out over her guests, the room buzzing with the excitement of mixed topics of discussion, he recalled with fondness the highly charged arguments between his father and John Locke over the divine right of kings and popular sovereignty. As he remembered it, Locke too had angered a monarch and ended up suffering temporary exile from England. Empathetically now, he found he was deeply in tune with Locke's response, _' I find myself,'_ Locke had said, _' being lifted into a place which perhaps I cannot fill, and from whence there is no descending without tumbling.'_ How well he could sympathize with that quandary now!

Still respecting his stubborn stand to uphold the accession of James to the throne, Robert knew his father had steadfastly defended that decision even though the king was a devout Catholic and he a member of the Protestant church of Scotland. It was his father's belief that if lines of accession through heritage did not prevail, then his own line could easily be interrupted by usurpers. Like many others in the English realm, his father had been fooled by James' initial complacency regarding his Catholicism. It had always been a major wonder to him how his mother, a very prominent member of the Anglican church, could have coexisted so amiably with a strong-willed Presbyterian. Their marriage had been arranged for the political purpose of uniting two powerful border families in order to set an example of goodwill between Scotland and England. His parents had taken their roles very seriously. Eventually, they had even fallen in love. He fully understood his mother's drive to see that his own heritage was protected. It was for her sake he hoped that Queen Anne would restore his ducal authority.

There could now be no reason why Anne would choose to continue to withhold her sanction of his title. He had aligned himself with her basic interests in the prevention of James or any of his heirs supported by King Louis, from regaining the English crown. It was Robert's purpose also to protect and expand England's overseas trade, preventing the rise of any European power strong enough to challenge that growing position. He had even willingly sunk a great deal of his own money into these precepts in order to support and instigate trade with the New World.

Quite unexpectedly, Robert was drawn from these weighty matters in the realization that most of the eyes in the room had turned to look at him. He stood in solitaire sipping a brandy, leaning one broad shoulder on the mantle. A recognition of long forgotten days began to steal across his face as he suddenly became aware of what they wanted. He raised a doubtful dark brow at the wisdom of their silent but determined request, attempting to redirect their attention elsewhere.

In impatient anticipation someone called out from the midst of the guests, "A recitation is long overdue, Lord Windingham!" The crowd took up the opinion in unison as they individually pulled themselves from various portions of the room to gather about him. Lady Rutledge managed to procure a chair not more than a few feet away and waited for the momentary silence in between pleading, then brazenly slurred out her own desires. "Yes, Lord Windingham, do give us a recitation, say, on _hopeless_ love!" The congregation clustered about him, laughing amiably and encouraging him to comply.

Setting his brandy upon the mantle, Robert paused briefly, then with a glitter of mischief in his eyes took a stately pose. He placed his feet in a well executed ninety-degree angle in exacting mimicry of the graceful and dignified carriage of the late six foot Charles II, as he proceeded to direct the first line to Lady Rutledge, _" Hopeless, you say? I'm not the sort of fool That likes his ladies difficult and cool,"_ then pursued the entire verse in a resounding rich baritone, _" Men who are awkward, shy, and peasantish may pine for heartless beauties, if they wish, grovel before them, bear their cruelties, woo them with tears and sighs and bended knees, and hope by dogged faithfulness to gain what their poor merits never could obtain. For men like me, however, it makes no sense to love on trust, and foot the whole expense. Whatever any lady's merits be, I think, thank God, that I'm as choice as she; that if my heart is kind enough to burn for her, she owes me something in return; and that in any proper love affair the partners must invest an equal share._ That I believe is from, Act III, Scene I, _Acaste,_ in Moliere's _Misanthrope_ ," he informed them with a wink. Bowing graciously to the audience amid tinkling laughter and hearty applause, he returned gratefully to his brandy.

Lady Rutledge was much too inebriated to realize just how neatly Robert had deflated her intent to publicly embarrass him. Somehow, though, she sensed it, throwing her emptied crystal goblet into the fireplace to shatter just inches from his legs.

Robert was about to reciprocate when a husky man with chestnut hair and lively brown eyes stepped in between them. He was approximately a head shorter than the Marquis, but the difference in their stature didn't seem to trouble him in the least.

"I say, old man, I thought the fireplace was getting out of hand the way the sparks were flying over here. Couldn't help but check on it, you know, and possibly dash it out. But now I can see it really isn't troubling a'tall is it?"

"Harry! Where in the bloody thunder did you come from? The last time I heard, you were making plans to fight in France!"

Robert clapped his childhood friend briskly on the back in the obvious delight at seeing him. He drew the slightly younger man out of Alvina's hearing range and signaled a liveried footman to bring him a drink.

Eyes sparkling with mischief, Harry grinned a disarming gap-toothed smile, and shrugged his bulky shoulders. "Well, as you know, dear boy, I'm in somewhat of the same predicament as you. Still just a little lower on the title rung, if you will. The Baron and Baroness were worried that if something should happen to me there would be no one to carry on. So, most unfortunately, I've had to bide my time on this side of the Channel at such difficult labors as cock-fighting, horse racing, and gambling, not to mention a toss in the feathers now and then. I'd be right in assuming that you and her _ladyship_ of the flying crystal broke it off before you left for the cold gray moors of Scotland--wouldn't I?"

"Yes, why do you ask?" Robert asked with amusement.

"Well, I didn't want to disturb you with the awful confession that I had--just a couple of times after you left, mind you-- considered having a go at it. But, by the time I got up my nerve, one could say it was like receiving the community cup of water at table and finding a bean floating in it."

Robert knew better than to encourage him, but Baronet Henry Falstone was an irreverent rascal and in spite of himself he found his lips twitching at the comic declaration of intent. He couldn't help but surrender to the temptation of continuing with such harmless banter. "Just philandering of course?" Robert quipped.

"Now, would I consider anything else, my dear Lord Windingham?" Harry retorted in good humor with bushy brows raised for emphasis.

"Nor would I, Baronet Falstone!"

"No! Don't tell me you're not married or a least betrothed to some sweet innocent young thing? Haven't you been able to find anyone of that ilks to suit you?"

"Not really, and considering the choices available at court, I probably won't." Robert stated emphatically. "Therefore, my friend, I don't feel compelled to hurry--except that there is the matter of coming up with an heir sooner or later."

A wind ensemble had begun to play an elegant melody with a simple harmonic accompaniment in the background. It was a piece of music Robert had not heard before and he found it much different from the stately, disciplined, French style at court he liked. This sonata was filled with intense feeling, quite unlike the usual pure technical display. It stirred emotions in him that were far from superficial, touching the deepest recesses of his caring. Even the rascal Harry had grown somewhat musing, bringing out his rarely displayed sensitive side.

"Tell me, Robert, what is the description of the perfect woman for you?"

Robert glanced briefly at his old friend to make certain he was not jesting. Seeing a true reflective look on his face, he gestured toward a couple of curule chairs. They were discreetly located near a mural of tall greenery which provided a backdrop for a contemplative angel sitting on top of a tall marble pedestal. As Harry seated himself across from the Marquis, one of the Pomeranians came bounding in a fluffy ball across the floor, jumping neatly into Harry's lap. The two of them sat staring at Robert with curious and intense brown eyes. For a moment it was very disconcerting to Robert, but as neither of the pair made a sound and seemed quite comfortable with each other, he began to muse genuinely on the question posed. Something, he thought guiltily, he should have done long ago. "The perfect woman, eh?"

"For you, of course, for you!" Harry encouraged him somberly.

Sitting back, Robert stretched out his long muscular legs, crossing them at the ankles over the spatterdashes protecting his jackboots. The elbows of his dress coat rested on the arms of the curule chair and the sensitive fingers of both hands extended from the ruffled cuff of his shirt, bracing together thoughtfully at their tips. Then a mischievous sparkle entered his eyes causing one dark brow to lift in insolence. "For me, eh? Well, let's see. The perfect woman for me will be able to hold her own in every way!" he said with growing amused enthusiasm. "I want her to be a progeny of the gentle branches of learning. In other words, she needn't have indulged in Greek, or Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning," he elaborated. "I don't think it would be necessary for her to be highly skilled at such diabolical instruments as mathematics or astronomy. But I would hope that her parents were wise enough to send her away at the proper age to a boarding school where she could learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Come to think of it, I should like for her to know enough about the manipulations of numbers so that she would be good with the accounts. But I think that above all else, she should be the mistress of orthodoxy," he went on, causing Harry to ponder his friend's seriousness. "I wouldn't want her to misspell and mispronounce words as shamefully as most women do and above all she must be articulate so that she knows the true meaning of what she is saying. I believe it is in the exchange of intellect wherein the real ability to be sensuous and loving lies. For me, there is nothing so provocative as a sharp intelligent mind."

"My good fellow, I can see where you may be having some difficulty. Tell me, do you ever give a thought to such surface items as hair, eyes, breasts, etc.?" the baron quizzed emphatically.

Robert's lips twitched as he gave Harry a mock look of disdain. "Aye! I'm just as hot-blooded as the next man and would hope that she would be packaged well. But if it had to be, I would rather have a plain woman with a good mind than a beauty with nothing but air between her ears! I'm afraid, though, that it is the latter that usually comes with beauty. Most women born with good looks rest their laurels on just that and thrust all their life's goals on the nurturing of it. A man sees perhaps a hundred women he likes well enough for an intrigue, but nothing more. It's quite possible through the whole course of his life not to find a woman who is exactly what he could wish her to be and that one, it is a thousand to one, he never gets!"

"You've got that right! 'Tis the reason a man ends up going from mistress to mistress. For if he does find her, she usually likes somebody else much better than he--or uses him like a donkey because he likes nobody so well as her. Oh well, so much for ending up with the perfect woman!" Harry sniffed.

"I doubt I'll choose my life's mate," Robert stated flatly. "I'm sure those who entrust themselves with the confidence of being wiser will one day choose for me out of the sheer desperation that I never will or for some other just as perverse notion," he sighed.

"I say, that's okay by me. Just tell me where and when to show up to the nuptials and I'll be there. I'll stay long enough to beget an heir and then leave to take up my life where I left off." Harry gave the Pomeranian a gentle pat, then set him down on the floor. "It all sounds rather tedious and grim if I do say so!"

Robert threw back his head and laughed at the doleful look that had usurped the anticipation and curiosity in Harry's eyes. "Such is the life of a nobleman, eh? Who says the middle class doesn't have a better life!"

"Far be it from me!" Harry stood with eyes searching about the room. "It always amazes me how impossible it is to locate a footman when you need one and how they're always about when you don't." He licked his lips. "This whole subject has suddenly made me very thirsty. You'll excuse me, won't you, while I go refurbish this empty glass with something more colorful than what's in it at the moment."

Robert watched amiably as his friend made his way across the floor in search of a servant bearing a tray of liquid refreshment. He took a deep contented breath, satisfied for the moment to merely sit at the fringes of the gathering rather than to dive into the midst of the ongoing rhetoric as was his usual custom. He was tired from the long journey home and sought nothing more than a bite to eat and the comfort of his bed. He stood, stretching his saddle weary body, then left quietly through a side door.

Morning found Robert up early, dressed casual for him in a loose bagpipe sleeve shirt. He had laced his breeches tightly at the back of his trim waist. He moved to the window and raised a hand to hold back the heavy drapery at one of the large traceried windows of his bedchamber. His gaze swept the familiar ancient wards surrounding Windingham. The morning had brought on a mood that was somber. Narrowing his eyes, they honed in on the equerry below who was conscientiously instructing a young man on the proper way to groom and exercise his horse. For some reason the dark stallion had taken an instant dislike to the youth, thrusting his head forward aggressively with ears laid flat, nostrils wrinkled up and back, mouth opened with teeth bared in warning. Since Robert's mind was not truly on what was transpiring below, he wondered absentmindedly what choice of action the new groom would choose at such a display of seemingly bad temper. The feisty Arabian was forever intimidating the new help. The unfortunate lad had been unlucky enough to draw caring for him. Much to Robert's amazement, the boy was not having any of what _Noir_ was dishing out, even though the great animal had put on a full threatening act of pawing the ground and making lunged attempts at biting him. All that appeared to save the young groom from a nasty nip was holding _Noir_ firmly in check. Robert straightened, interested now, noticing that the stubborn youth was stretching out a flat palm bearing a plump apple balanced precariously in its center. _Noirs_ head went up instantly and his ears pricked forward. His nostrils flared in an attempt to take in informative smells. Upon determining the scent, the horse kept his large eyes on the red fruit, but at the same time on the slowly advancing groom. Amused eyes watched from the Marquis' bedroom window as the big ears flopped on either side of _Noirs_ head in what would seem to be final submission. Chuckling, Robert shook his head and turned away with the familiar awareness that _Noir_ had again managed to coerce the new help out of his favorite treat. This would probably continue to go on for the length of their stay. He could not fault the stallion. He himself had been guilty of the same ploy as a small child, utilizing it against the various tutors that had come to Windingham to teach him many and assorted lessons.

A light knock sounded on his door. Responding, a footman informed him that the duchess wished to see him in her chamber. Robert quickly slung on his brocade waistcoat and readjusted lace cuffs while stepping into the expansive hallway. His mother's suite was in the next wing and the hollow click of his jackboots echoed in military precision as he came down the passing corridors making his usual energetic strides in that direction. Servant girls stopped their duties at the sound of his familiar steps and took shy peeks at him from out of doorways, turning from various positions of labor to sigh and look longingly at him. All of this devout admiration went without Robert's notice. His mind was preoccupied on other matters. It had been a long time since he'd had the privilege of breaking the fast with his mother and he looked forward to a pleasant chat before settling down to the business of his holdings. The directions that her bright mind always traversed challenged him, leaving him feeling mentally stimulated. It was interaction that he needed at the moment with the prospective intrigues of court laying ahead.

Upon reaching her chamber, he knocked softly before taking the initiative to open the door. He found her seated at a round linen covered table surrounded by four gilt tapestry chairs. A tall crystal vase of multicolored dried rose petals from last summer's garden was in its center. Robert joined her, easing his lengthy frame onto one of the chairs next to her own.

"Good morning, mother," he began, soon discovering the need to draw her from the task of writing. "How do you manage to look so lovely considering the fact that you were up with your guests very late? You look incredibly young and beautiful!" he complimented her, patting her affectionately on the shoulder.

Dressed in a rose colored sacque, the Duchess had gracefully drawn the French robe back to one side of the chair. An Irish lace pinner nestled upon her white upswept hair. She was penning a letter. Laying it aside with a smile, she gave her son a warm look of welcome. "Good morning, dear heart. Have you managed to rid yourself of some of the effects of a long journey?"

Robert watched her graceful hands extend from the pleated wing cuffs of her gown to reach for the silver tea service, pouring him a cup of the hot amber liquid contained within it. With nimble fingers she quickly added just the right amount of sugar and cream, stirring it only briefly to conserve the heat before handing him the elegant china cup and saucer.

"Most of the physical tiredness has left me, my lady. But not what I find up here," Robert said frowning, gesturing toward his forehead.

"Yes, I understand what you mean. I hope before you must travel on to court we can alleviate that problem too!" she responded empathetically, laying one lightly bejeweled hand compassionately on his sleeve. "In an attempt to second guess your needs, I have had all the proper estate documentation reviewed by our solicitors last week. They've been placed on the desk in your study. I am in the deepest hopes that you will find everything in order and that the greater majority of your time can be spent in rest and relaxation before you have to take up your responsibilities to Anne."

"As always, I seem to be able to count on you. Thank you for that, mother. Now tell me about you and how you've been faring since I left for Scotland."

"Oh, I've my good days and my bad ones," she sighed. "That's to be expected of course. I miss your father more than words can say. He's left me well cared for and you a considerable inheritance. But, I'm finding that the greatest treasures he left us both are all the dear and loyal friends he accumulated over his lifetime. They've been more comfort than I will ever be able to repay. I know, Robert, it's natural for you to be constantly on your guard, especially because you are your father's heir, but I want you to remember that you are not without powerful friends at court. Even Anne must come to realize it will not do her any good to keep challenging your loyalty."

"Ah yes, but she is _queen_ and I, unfortunately, have denied her royal pleasure. One does not easily overcome the displeasure of one's sovereign. I have no idea how she will react when she actually sees me again. I'll consider myself fortunate if she views me with little consequence."

"The crown never rests easily on a woman's head, my son. Anne's greatest enemy is any woman's biggest adversary-- loneliness. She is surrounded by male ministers who consistently try to thwart her power and now her dearest female friend seems to have turned on her. To make matters worse, she is frail of health. I'm told she's in pain a great deal of the time." Robert said nothing as he lifted his cup to sample its contents, but the rebellious fire in his eyes worried the Duchess. "Robert, you must forgive Anne's decision not to protect your father. She is your queen. If you are as wise as I think you are, you will become her ally."

Robert's cup was set hard in its saucer. "Anne, _an ally?_ Never!"

"Put your anger aside, Robert!"

"Why should I, madam! She didn't lift a finger to save my father. She as good as sentenced him to death by turning her back on him!"

"Yes. I agree. But Marlborough was very powerful at the time and still is. However, I foresee that his position is growing weaker with his wife's tampering in Anne's affairs." She leaned intently toward him, unafraid of his outburst. "Think on this as you would the game of chess at which you excel. The queen will one day see through the Churchills. On that day, she will welcome a new champion!"

"Are you proposing me?" his blue eyes blazed in astonishment.

"Yes, Robert, I am!" she stated vehemently. She withstood the fiery glare in his eyes, choosing instead to study him silently over her raised tea cup. _How like his father he is,_ she thought, as she watched the angry tic in the jaw of his aristocratic features. Once she had been afraid of the same glowering countenance on his father's face, but she had learned early that behind such ferocity also lay a kind and gentle spirit. Now as she witnessed the duplicate look on her son, she knew in back of the steel in his eyes lay not only kindness but a keen discerning intelligence.

He only needed time to come to terms with the wisdom she was attempting to hand him. Like his father, his anger had a tendency to speak first. She'd wait and place hope in her son's ability to come up with an effective stratagem.

"In my great regard for you, my lady," Robert said through forced restraint, "I will try to give your words credence. I cannot promise you, however, that I'll be able to align myself with your ideas-- especially on matters that might affect my father's honor."

"I would expect no less of you," she said handing him a small tray of his favorite pastries as she had in his younger days when he grew angry. "Now that I've spoken, you'll hear little more from me on the subject, unless, of course, you request my advice. Tell me, son, how long will I have the pleasure of your company before you must go to London?" she asked, envious of his appetite.

"I've hopes of stretching my visit into a couple of weeks. However, the queen may feel differently. Though she said I should take my time in settling my affairs here at Windingham, I felt a subtle pressure to do otherwise. I don't think I was mistaken about it." Robert popped a pastry in his mouth, swirling his tea thoughtfully before continuing, "You knew Anne when she was a young princess didn't you, mother? Tell me as much as possible about her, so that I'm better able to comprehend the woman behind the monarch she's become."

The duchess smiled to herself, feeling somewhat relieved. She took her time, gathering her thoughts as she poured herself more tea. "Anne's life has always been difficult," she began slowly. "Her mother, I believe, died when she was only six years old. When her father converted to Catholicism, it placed a barrier between himself and Anne. She grew up a simple and shy woman with the additional affliction of short-sightedness which made her awkward. Making friends was not easy for her and she surrounded herself with only a few close companions to whom she was fiercely attached."

"Like Sarah Churchill?" Robert grimaced.

"Yes, Sarah especially," she sighed shaking her head, but continued on, "When circumstances got unpleasant for Anne she would often take refuge in stubborn silence. Every now and then she still uses the _royal silence_ to dismay her adversaries."

"I know that stony quiet personally. It's very effective," Robert interjected growing thoughtful, but wishing to hear more. "What was she like when she did finally marry. Was she ever happy?"

"She was devoted to her husband Prince George of Denmark. Their marriage was a great success. However, it cost Anne her health because of so many still-births, miscarriages, and false pregnancies clear up until she reached her thirties. When she turned thirty-five she became a semi-invalid and walked only with great difficulty. Knowing the pain she has suffered makes her a very empathetic person to me."

"I wish I could share that empathy but her duplicity is still too fresh in my life," Robert said grimly.

"Try to remember, Robert, that James' reign placed her in a cruel dilemma. During the revolution, Prince George abandoned James soon after Salisbury. Anne was forced to flee to Nottingham under the protection of the Bishop of London. This is one of the reasons she could not condone your father's loyalty to James. The settlement of the throne worked a great strain on Anne. She resented terribly giving up her precedence to William and when she finally did become queen, she ended up inheriting William's war."

"Yes, but she aligned herself with John Churchill. The Duke of Marlborough's victories made her very popular!" Robert retorted, refusing to hide his bitterness of the alliance.

"Perhaps you of all people can understand how difficult it must be to turn against your own father's politics. Anne was forced to do this and it is why she is demanding total loyalty from you now."

"And she has gotten it, madam!" he snapped, the pain bare in his eyes.

Knowing she must say what she had to say, she went bravely on, "Anne was left to manage another of William's problems. She has had to tediously keep England from war with Scotland in order not to drain England's resources in the strife with France." She thoughtfully studied him then in the awareness she was treading on tender ground. "It's here, my son, you will discover the Marlboroughs' tendencies to push her too far."

"How can you believe she can be pushed too far when she continues to award John Churchill lavishly?" he asked quietly.

"Ah, yes, but Sarah has hounded her unmercifully. You'll discover that Anne has very strong views of her own. She may appear timid and diffident to the Duchess of Marlborough, but she will never see the crown placed at the mercy of one party. Sarah pushes her too far. Anne is devoted to the Church of England. She will never yield to Sarah's demands that only the Whig party is fit to be trusted with power."

Robert sat silent for a long time digesting his mother's words. He finally turned eyes filled with intensity in her direction. "So, each time the Duchess of Marlborough pushes and each time Anne is faced with these new demands, she showers honors on her husband. Then Sarah screams accusations of ingratitude. I would think Anne's patience would wear a little thin."

"Robert, the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough will threaten to resign one time too often. One day, Anne will accept that resignation! It's only a matter of time. Her love for Sarah is wearing very thin. When their final falling out occurs, and it will because Sarah is too confident, Marlborough will fall. Anne will be looking for others who are loyal. Do you not comprehend your entree?"

"We'll see, mother," Robert stated skeptically. "The Churchill's are powerful. But, I will investigate the situation at court very thoroughly. I do agree, however, that I am being utilized as one of Anne's political tools. I'm not ignorant of this fact in spite of my seeming reluctance and disinterest in court politics."

"You may feel you are a political pawn at the moment, son, but when Anne activates your ducal authority, a great power will also be yours."

Robert was about to remind her that Anne was well aware of that power, but he knew the point to be moot, and remained silent.

The duchess could see that her son was beginning to grow restless. It was a familiar signal of recognition that her time with him was about up. She hoped that she had diverted his strong need to confront Anne directly with the wrongs she had done his father. Having spent a great deal of her own years at court, she understood this compunction. But, she also knew that royal politics could be very dangerous to thwart and hoped her son would not do anything rash. Reaching out, she took his hand as he started to rise, holding him momentarily in place. "Robert, do you remember the ancient story of the Roman ruler? How he finally became Caesar by cleverly keeping to his own counsel and convincing others he was harmless--all the while he was in a snake-pit of corrupt political intrigue?"

Robert searched his mind for a name, then smiled, turning in recognition, "Are you referring to Claudius, mother?"

"Yes, I believe I am."

Robert's mouth spread into a wide grin, emitting a chuckle from deep in his throat, "Hmm! You only forgot one thing."

"Oh, what's that?" she smiled.

"He was finally poisoned."

"By whom?" his mother asked, startled.

"His wife!" he responded, winking at her. He succeeded in obtaining the gift of her laughter. Looking at her tenderly, he squeezed her hand. "Don't worry. I'll be careful, mother." He stood then, kissing her on the brow, patting her hand gently to reassure her.

She sat quietly pondering his strong tall figure as he crossed the room, disappearing outside the door as quickly as he had come. "Please do be careful, my son" she whispered anxiously to the closing door, "you are more important than you know. Because of this, you will be envied and hated."

# CHAPTER II

The Queen had allowed her to come home. But why? Ashley Leighton, the Marquise of Tournemouth, stood in puzzled contemplation on the forecastle of her ship the _Lady Soleil._ With unseeing eyes she looked out over the Isle of Wight to her left as they entered the waters of _The Solent._ She had not been home since her aunt, Sarah Churchill, had obtained for her the position of Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Anne. She had just turned twenty-one. Ashley had been satisfied to run the estate since the untimely death of her father at sea seven years ago. Had it not been for her aunt's damnable meddling, she would still be doing the same. But unfortunately, Sarah had made an untimely appearance on that twenty-first birthday only to discover her boldly sporting men's attire as she had sailed her small sloop into the private dock at Tournemouth. Sarah had taken one awful look at her waist length hair, hanging freely about her shoulders, knotted and dull from the salt air, her high-cheek fair complexion wind-burned, and her childlike hands calloused and chapped. Her appearance had instigated a scathing lecture on the toilette and proper decorum for _young_ ladies. When the word young had shot itself off of Sarah's tongue, Ashley was grimly reminded by her aunt that in the coming years she would be considered a spinster by all of society and that it was high time she came to court and found a man! In the name of all that was holy the tirade continued, ladies did not dress in male clothes, build and launch ships into the Channel, breed livestock, break thoroughbred horses to saddle, raise crops, nor run a dairy--all of which Ashley managed quite easily and was very proud to say so! Not only that, she was just as learned as any man. Her father and mother had hired tutors for her from Oxford and Cambridge, insisting that they provide her with a _gentleman 's education._ Her education was supported by a library at Tournemouth for which most senior scholars would die.

Ashley's fifty-eight year old uncle, John Churchill, was much too busy fighting the war in France to care what she did. He thrived on his military achievements since they were his alone and were not dependent on her aunt's influence as were his political fortunes. Ashley had long since decided, when Sarah had begun to meddle in her own life, that she understood just why her Uncle John loved war! At least when he was heading an army, he was his own man! But then, even the Queen wasn't free from her aunt's interference. Why should someone as insignificant as the Marquise of Tournemouth be left unscathed?

The Duchess of Marlborough was determined to relieve Ashley of her autonomy one way or another--perhaps even marry her off. This annoyed Ashley to no end, since she was beyond the notion of arranged marriages. If, and when she did marry, she alone would have the right to choose! Blast society for stipulating that a woman must marry! Why must she provide Tournemouth with an heir? Ashley would continue indefinitely to put off the probability of an arranged alliance.

Suddenly coming to the realization home was near, she looked out lovingly over the gray sea to the rolling chalk hills of the island. Her mother and father had built a villa there where they would go to escape the demands of their life in the palace at Tournemouth on the mainland. Sometimes they would allow her to come along too. But most often she was left to her own devices in the palace with the nanny or governess. But, she could always tell by the starry look in her parents eyes that they soon would be leaving for the Isle of Wight. It was a magical look that held volumes of love. It was her assurance of just how much she meant to them as their only offspring. An older brother had died of a fever when he was four and there were never any other conceptions after she had been born a year later.

The only time her mother was really sad was when her father left on one of his _special_ voyages. Ashley had since discovered that along with being the Marquis of Tournemouth, her father was Captain Newell Leighton, an English privateer for the crown. On his last and fatal voyage, her mother had successfully talked him into taking her with him. To lose them both was devastating to a fifteen year old girl. As a highly precocious child, she had learned much in the fifteen years before losing her parents. Upon their death she would realize just how considerably her father had believed in her capabilities when the contents of his will disclosed that he'd left her in complete control. The will had not gone uncontested, being a woman, but the document had proven to be irrevocable, leaving her mistress of fifty-thousand acres (twenty thousand hectares) at Tournemount on the mainland and twenty-six acres (10.5 hectares) around the villa on the Isle of Wight. It had been a huge responsibility for a young girl. But her father had also left her his dearest friend to watch over her, Sir Radley Sigehere, and with Sir Radley had come his sweet wife, Lady Corliss. She was tempted to order the _Lady Soleil_ to turn toward the island, but her longing to see her godparents was stronger than the pull that Tresor House had always held for her.

Ashley was in awe of the fact that at last she was so near to her home. She had been certain when Anne had summoned her to a private consultation that she was in some kind of trouble. But instead the queen had been most cordial, treating her as if she were her very own daughter, and, after only a few moments of pleasant idle conversation, had given Ashley her fondest wish -- time to go home. She didn't have long at home when one considered the length of the journey, but sailing had been a lot quicker than going overland. The Queen had even offered one of her own coaches and a personal guard of twelve soldiers which she just barely managed to refuse, pleading the justification of time. Unfortunately, she had not been able to refuse the guards. Anne had been insistent on that! Four of them now stood to the other side of the foremast near the hammock netting rigged along the side to hold off forceful boarders. They were a stern looking group of young men that took their duty very seriously, never letting her out of their sight unless she was involved with her toilette or sleeping. It was most tiresome for someone who loved freedom as much as she did.

Her mood quickly spiraled downward with the thought of the guards and she moved rapidly to traverse the length of the ship in order to reach her spacious day cabin to the rear of the mizzenmast below deck. Ashley giggled to herself as she saw the guards attempting to follow her hurried flight across the deck in some kind of orderly fashion. Much to her dismay, one of two of the guards stationed outside her cabin stepped forward and opened the door for her. Seeing his slight frown at her pink cheeks and the breathless heaving under her echelle, she made an attempt to slow her approach. However, it was too late. She was forced to make a quick turn into the cabin to prevent herself from running headlong into the guard, but not quite agile enough to prevent a graceless entry through the portal. In her hurry, she lost one high slender heeled shoe. As she turned to bend down and retrieve it, her bonnet fell off exposing her less than satisfactory attempt to secure the upsweep of her hair--it came tumbling down in ebony ringlets about her face and shoulders. She was quite certain as she closed the door to her cabin that a slight twitch could be seen on the lips of the young man who was trying so hard to scowl at her in disapproval. At that exact moment it was decided to lead them all on a merry chase during the brief holiday the queen had allowed her. She sincerely hoped it would be somewhat of a challenge, because up until now it had been easy to outwit every man she had ever met. She had not the least supposition that even one of the guards might make it an interesting contest. She would give them all some extra latitude, since they did belong to the queen. _Yes,_ she thought cheerfully, _a handicap for me is certain to make it a more even competition. Father didn 't teach me the savoir-faire of a privateer for naught._

The five miles across the Solent to the long narrow inlet that ended at Beaulieu was directly before the bow of the ship now. To the left of the mouth of the inlet was the private Tournemouth dock. The _Lady Soleil_ slipped silently into its mooring with only the sound of the momentary slush of the strait waters against the dock's pilings. As was her custom, Ashley donned a crewman's garb, tucking her hair into a woolen cap to hide her long mane. She waited until the captain of the guard gave the signal that they would wait topside, then listened until she could no longer hear their footsteps as they climbed to the deck above. Rolling a few brief supplies into a knapsack, she hurried on deck and straight down the gangplank past the dozen young men who stood in formal military formation awaiting her arrival. They never suspected that their charge had already left the ship and was boarding a sloop tied at a smaller dock nearby.

As she eased the little craft out into the waters of the Solent, she managed to raise the sails as the sloop slid past the side of the _Lady Soleil._ From the clamor heard on the deck high above it was obvious they had discovered she was missing. Yanking off the scratchy wool cap, she saw the young captain of the guard lean over the railing just as the headsail of her sloop started to billow with a shift in the wind. To counteract the jibe, she hauled in the mainsail and moved the boom by hand, hiding her body on the other side away from the larger vessel.

The officer of the royal guard watched in stunned admiration as the wind came abeam, placing the boat on course. He next saw Ashley let out the sail until the leading edge fluttered. Then, with perfect timing, she hauled it in a few inches for a perfect trim. The mouth of the inlet was now to the left of the small sloop and his concerned eyes remained fixed on the young woman as he watched her tack the sailboat easily into the waters of the inlet. He grinned as she turned and while brushing her long hair back from her glowing face, waved a most hearty farewell. The marquise might beat them to Beaulieu, he thought sternly, but with some satisfaction he knew they would recapture her at Tournemouth. Weirdly he felt happy she had managed to steal freedom for herself on the little craft. _What a woman_! he thought in startling revelation while turning to inform the others to hastily unload their mounts in order to prepare to follow on land. Of one thing the young officer was very certain, he didn't want to have to explain to the queen that they had lost the Marquise of Tournemouth!

Sailing for Ashley was pure joy in motion. The sloop glided silently over the calm inlet waters under a light breeze. Once again she experienced the exhilarating hard thrash to windward, the pause and swoop of a downwind sleigh ride with the stern wave cresting over the counter. She kept her eyes on the leading edge of the jib, knowing it would flutter if she steered too close to the wind or if the wind shifted around and came at her from ahead. The twenty-eight foot sloop was one of Ashley's greatest loves. Her father had named it the _Sunbeam,_ saying that she herself was like a ray of solar light when on board sailing it.

Ashley suddenly caught sight of jagged rocks off the approaching shore. In a long arc the _Sunbeam_ swept toward the eye of the wind. She released the jib when it began to flutter and the mast eased back to the vertical as the wind was lost from the sails. There was a banging of blocks and slatting of canvas while the sloop came about, then quietness as it heeled to the wind on the other side. Ashley trimmed the jib and the _Sunbeam_ once again gathered speed toward Beaulieu. Taking a deep breath, she settled back against a cushion and thought how much she would like to have heard again her father's praise at the skilled maneuvers she had just accomplished. There was no voice to congratulate her now, but the reward still went personal and deep just the same.

When the _Sunbeam_ neared Beaulieu, a narrowed channel appeared leading into a private cove. The breeze had begun to ease as the sun settled lower. Before turning into the cove, Ashley saw over the open water astern a number of small boats that had been put to bed in their home moorings. As the sloop crept within the embrace of the land, she watched fondly as two children ferried the family dog ashore in a dinghy not much larger than a tiny tub. Upon reaching her private dock, Ashley stopped the sloop by heading into the wind and then dropped anchor. She took a moment to absorb the familiar surroundings. Shadows had begun to deepen under the trees and spill out over the water. In the darkening sky overhead, clouds had turned from gold to pink and lights that had winked on near shore became shimmering spears on the water. Gathering her belongings, she stood in quiet reflection on deck. The cove's water seemed like a mirror, broken only by the spreading rings offish rising to take insects. Reaching into her knapsack, she took out bread and cheese. Sailing always made her hungry. Nibbling the light repast, she decided that nowhere on earth could food be so good. Not even the lavish royal fare at court had tasted as delicious as this simple meal being consumed while breathing in the fresh salt air.

Moments after securing the sloop for mooring, she looked up and saw the old gamekeeper from Tournemouth coming down the twisting lane to the private cove. Erim Keir had been at Tournemouth since her father was a small boy. He was a big hefty fellow with broad high shoulders, built like a bull with a large head set on a thick neck, now mostly hidden by a full gray beard. He never spent much time on his lion's mane of hair and since he had grown older a soft-billed cap kept it from sticking straight out from his head. He'd not run to fat in his older years and his body was still solid with muscle. His gray eyes, which were set wide under heavy brows that had stayed brown refusing to age, ranged in color from dark and light to sometimes an almost azure blue. They were eyes that masked a thousand tales behind them; eyes that could brood and snap with points of fire or grow chill as a frosty landscape; but eyes mostly warm and a-dance with mischief. A kind of mischief which had often lured and compelled her into high imaginative adventure as a child.

She was filled with supreme gladness and joy upon seeing his sturdy familiar figure driving his old two wheeled orange cart. Happily she noticed that it was being pulled by the same flea-bitten gray New Forest pony she remembered with the charcoal snip on its nose. In no time at all he had reached the shore edge by encouraging the pony into a quick trot to the landing where she stood waiting with one hand shading her gaze for clearer vision. Erim jumped down from the cart as agile as a young man and she tried not to smile as he removed the cap and his wicked hair began to rise.

"Figur'd you'd come this way, m'lady. Couldn't imagine you wouldn't grab the chance. Saw you from up there atop the knoll. Appears you haven't lost your sailin' skill any." Erim saved words like a miser saves gold. That is, unless he was spinning one of his fantastic yarns making him generous in verbal descriptions.

"It's wonderful to see you again, Mr. Keir. You're looking as hardy as ever! Tell me, are you here to take me to Tournemouth or did you bring _Eclair? "'_

"She's at the cottage. Don't know if anyone can ride her anymore. Maybe not even you now. The groom wasn't sure I should bring her."

"She'll remember me. I raised her from a foal."

"She's wild as the Arabs your father bought her from. Ask me and I'd send her back!"

Ashley's laughter filled the air as she climbed without aid into the cart. "Well, let's go find out just how wild she's become."

"I'd be glad to take you home, m'lady. Just lead her behind the cart to the big house."

"It'll be fine, Mr. Keir. You mustn't' fret. How is your wife?"

"Oh, been feelin' kind of poorly. Cold gets in her bones. Can't walk so good in winter."

"She would probably be better off in a dryer climate," Ashley offered helpfully.

"Says she's too old to live anywhere else. You know how she loves the wild flowers here in May."

They had reached the top of the road and pulled into the croft by the single room thatch-roofed cottage sitting on the edge of the woodlands. The smoke curling out of the chimney told her it would be warm and cozy inside. But she couldn't tarry. There was the trip to Tournemouth to accomplish so the royal guards would not get there ahead of her. Tied at the gate to the garden was _Eclair,_ her gray Persian Arab. The moonlight flooding the yard made the filly look almost white. Hearing Ashley's familiar voice, the horse turned an elegant head. Large intelligent eyes attempted to ascertain Ashley's location. The nostrils in her dark gray muzzle flared, attempting to scent out what she could not quite see. The deep charcoal hue appeared on her body only in two other places, at the polls and along the sides of her ears which were now flexed up and moving backward and forward, trying to hear the sound of Ashley's voice once more. Enthusiastically Ashley climbed down from the cart, but proceeded slowly across the yard toward the animal, talking calmly as she went. "Let's see if she still knows me, Mr. Keir." She kept her voice soft, "Hello, girl? Have you missed me?" _Eclair_ immediately began to prance back and forth, stretching the length of her tether. "Easy, girl. Don't get too excited. I've missed you too." The filly whinnied softly. A shiver ran visually up and down her back. Ashley came closer and the filly aggressively began whipping her head up and down. "No!" Ashley's voice was like the crack of a whip and the animal immediately stood still. Approaching the Arabian's head, she took the halter with one hand while stroking her muzzle gently with the other. "Good, girl." The horse blew softly, nuzzling her shoulder. "I love you too, _Eclair "_ Untying the reins and grabbing her mane firmly, she pulled herself up on the horse's bare back. The Arabian's front hooves immediately lifted off the ground, but with one more sharp command, dropped down, only to begin a prancing and eagerness to be off.

Erim strolled up and handed Ashley her knapsack. "She remembers you went everywhere fast, m'lady."

Securing the knapsack to the belt at the back of her waist, Ashley's green eyes filled with delight as she gave the Arabian a single command. "Go!"

Erim watched in admiration as the two whirled as one, flashing down the road, disappearing into the broad-leaved forest.

The land around Tournemouth was wild, filled with a primordial wilderness of mountain, forest, fen, and moor. It was the favorite haunt of bears, wolves, beavers, and boars. The streams in it ran pure. In the summertime butterflies darkened the sky as they supped from the masses of wild flowers dazzling the eyes with all the colors of the spectrum. Great choirs of birds filled the oak woods with brilliant colors and songs. It was a land that the Leighton's had left untouched by the scythe, axe, tilling of the soil--and the hunter's gun. Instead, the gently bred family had been one of the first to drain certain selected fens located on their estate. They planted these lowlands with wheat and turned them into green pastures for their prize livestock. But always consideration was given to leaving a goodly portion of the estate wild.

As Erim turned to enter his cottage, a feeling of pride swept through him thinking about the young marquise. She was as brave as any son the Leighton's ever could have produced. In his mind's eye, it was truly fitting Tournemouth belonged only to her.

The gatekeeper came storming up the palace steps to tell one of the footmen that he had seen the marquise galloping her horse across the village footbridge on the terrace below. The footman immediately hurried through the large entry doors and told the butler, who in turn quickly took the grand stairs two at a time, rushing down the corridor to the south wing where Sir Radley and Lady Corliss had retired to their suite for the evening. Lady Corliss was sitting in the large canopied bed reading her Bible. Her small round wire glasses sat pinched on the end of her nose making her usually soft features appear rather austere. A white nightcap was securely tied to one side of her chin and a beige woollen shawl lay about her plump shoulders. She was a plain woman with a merry disposition, rosy cheeks, and a big heart.

Sir Radley sat nearby at a small table penning a letter. He lay down his quill at the sound of a light rap at the door. Cocking his bald head containing a white horseshoe of short fluffy hair to one side, he listened, needing to ascertain whether or not he had in fact heard someone knock. When the second knock came it nearly vibrated the door off its hinges. Sir Radley's monocle dropped from his right eye and he looked at his now startled wife with white raised brows of astonishment. His walrus mustache twitched in agitation. But before whoever it was could pound on the door again, he rose and tightened his dressing gown about his short rotund figure, plunked his red nightcap with the gold tassel atop his tonsure smoothed head, and made his way rather rapidly for a portly man to the tall double doors of the bedchamber. Simultaneously, as he opened the doors wide, Lady Corliss modestly drew the drapes closed about the bed.

"Goodness, Oxley, what is it?" Sir Radley tried not to appear ruffled.

"Begging your pardon, Sir Radley, Lady Corliss," Oxley felt uneasy about addressing Lady Corliss through the closed drapes, "but I have been notified that Lady Tournemouth has been spotted coming across the village footbridge. She should just about be on the parkway by now I would think."

Lady Corliss stuck out only her capped head through the bed curtains. "Oh my goodness!" Seeing the butler, she immediately disappeared again. Speaking from behind the drapes she ordered, "Mr. Sigehere, please bring me by dressing gown and slippers."

"Right away, Mrs. Sigehere!"

Sir Radley hastily closed the door, leaving the uneasy butler to rush back down the steps to prepare the rest of the staff for the marquise's arrival. "He's gone, Mrs. Sigehere."

"Oh good!" Lady Corliss shoved open the curtains with excited force just as her husband dutifully placed the slippers on her side of the bed. He stood holding her dressing gown open while waiting for her to place the slippers on her feet. She hurriedly stepped into them, but the heel of her left foot only smashed down the back of the small satin-quilted shoe instead of proceeding smoothly inside. It caused her to awkwardly drag the encumbered foot as she hurried forward seeking her husband's aid into the robe. Seeing that his wife had the sacque properly about her, Sir Radley hurried forward to reopen the doors and find out what happened to the butler. Lady Corliss rushed after him and ran smack into a small settee upon which sat the now two startled Pekinese. Sensing the sudden excitement, the small copper bundles of fluff jumped down and began a high pitched yapping while biting and pulling on the hem of her robe, "Oh dear me!" Lady Corliss said in a fluster. Sir Radley whirled his big frame about nearly knocking a vase of dried flowers off a pedestal. "What is it, Mrs. Sigehere?" he asked quite calmly upon taking a deep breath and skillfully righting the vase. His wife was now turned completely away from him facing in the opposite direction which puzzled him. She spoke as if addressing him directly to his face. "What's the matter with me, Mr. Sigehere? I can't seem to see a thing." Sir Radley studied the back of his wife quite seriously for a moment as she waved her searching hands in front of her in mid-air, then answered matter-of-fact. "I believe you need to remove your reading spectacles, my dear." "Oh, how silly of me," Lady Corliss giggled in good humor. "Of course I do!" The dogs were now merely growling and quarreling over the attempt to hang on to the same piece of the robe's broad hem. Upon removing her eyeglasses, Lady Corliss was able to see more clearly. "Pierpont! Remy! Stop that this instance, you naughty little boys!" she said in a mock tone of scolding as she pulled at her gown, much to the Pekinese delight, then finally yanked the fabric free. The two sassy little dogs let go, wagged their tails, and plunked their furry bottoms proudly down at her feet. With pink tongues hanging to one side of their black-lips they seemed to be grinning up at her in little toothy smiles. Sir Radley watched his wife indulgently as she lifted the lid of a bejeweled silver box, "Come, Mrs. Sigehere. We must hurry! Our sweet child has come home at last!" She removed two small tidbits, feeding them to each pooch, fondling them as she did. "You are so spoiled you bad little things! How do I put up with you?" she laughed as the dogs raced out the door ahead of them.

Ashley had stopped at the ancient stone barbican now serving as the gate house. Finding the gatekeeper was not in, she had ridden on without concern, knowing the man's habit of riding immediately up to the palace to report arrivals to the occupants of the main building. Pausing once again, she now sat astride _Eclair_ gazing at the graying block stone walls of the three story U-shaped buildings spreading grandly in the middle of a swath of grassland before her. At a distance, some of the exterior walls looked as if they had been captured by a giant spider's web. It was late winter and the ivy leaves had yet to regrow and turn green. Centered in a world surrounded by wildlands, Tournemouth cast off the myth-like aura of the hidden protected stronghold of a daring wealthy privateer. Since discovering her father's dangerous past, Tournemouth seemed even more like the home of a mythological hero to Ashley. Glancing up toward the roof of the main building, her homesick eyes traced the widow's walk that ran along the edge of the slate roof and circled the outside of eight turrets. It was a walk that gave those who had no fear of heights a lengthy but pleasant hike, providing a full view of the surrounding grounds and countryside. It also could be delightfully traversed in the summer, where one could find large baskets of blooming fuchsia sitting at the top of the ornate wrought iron posts placed every few feet along the walkway. Like her mother, Ashley shared the love of flowers. Her sharp gaze quickly assessed the condition of buildings and grounds. All was as it should be, right down to the topiary that lined the sides of the white gravel drive up to the huge porte-cochere of the inner courtyard. She breathed a soft sigh of relief and once again gave silent thanks for the two dear people her father had selected to be her guardians. Though no one would ever replace her real parents, the Sigeheres had come pretty close.

Ashley glanced down at her rumpled apparel and knew that her appearance for a young lady of refinement was rather scary. She severely chastised herself. Why couldn't she have stayed aboard ship, allowing her lady's maid to help her dress in one of the many fine gowns she now owned while coercing her long unruly locks into the elegant upswept coiffure she wore as Anne's Lady of the Bedchamber? She should have been driving up in a coach right this minute, aided to alight by one of her footmen, making a grand ladylike entrance that would display her as the titled aristocrat everyone wanted her to be. It would have made Lady Corliss and Sir Radley so proud to see how fine she could behave and how very much the elegant lady she had at last become. _I 'm too impetuous,_ she scolded herself. _I should think about the feelings of others more readily than recklessly giving in to my whims of the moment! I 'm a ninny! Here I sit astraddle like an untutored child, back to the mannish ways that got me in such trouble in the first place. When will I ever learn?_

She had ridden _Eclair_ at such a breakneck speed, she hoped at least the gifts were still traveling with her. Reaching back, Ashley felt to see if the knapsack was still in place. _Thank goodness,_ she thought sighing with relief, _it 's still there_! Unfortunately, there was no turning back now. She would not be making an appropriate entrance. _Perhaps it would be better if I came in through the kitchens,_ she thought, pausing to determine what would be best, since returning brashly to her old ways! Suddenly Ashley's chin went up and her jaws clamped down stubbornly. Hunching her shoulders forward she firmly pressed her knees into the Arabian's sides. Shouting the single command, horse and rider came pounding up the long length of the drive into the inner courtyard. While still at a full gallop, Ashley leapt, propelling herself up the seven steps to the front door. She turned at the top landing just in time to salute the groom who appeared out of nowhere to catch the bridle of the now riderless mount. "There's no place in the world like Tournemouth!" Ashley breathed aloud to no one in particular taking a full turn-around as the large double doors to the palace swung wide for her. "Good evening, Oxley," she said breathlessly. "Have Sir Radley and Lady Corliss retired for the evening?"

"I believe, my lady, they're making their way from the south wing to come and greet you."

Oxley had no more than spoken when a small commotion was heard from the second landing corridor. Ashley had just placed one booted foot on the bottom step to the grand staircase when two copper balls came hurdling themselves down the marble stairwell, followed not long thereafter by the familiar banter of Ashley's guardians. "Oh, I'm so excited Mr. Sigehere! I simply cannot believe Queen Anne has allowed her to come home to us!" "I know, my dear. It was truly unconscionable that she was taken from Tournemouth in the first place." "Sarah Churchill has always been such a meddling busybody! It is beyond me how the queen tolerates her at all!" "Historically, however, it's not unusual for a monarch to be run by a power behind the throne and I'm afraid our dear queen is one of... ." "Oh look, Mr. Sigehere! She is here!" As Lady Corliss reached the top of the staircase, she stopped abruptly. Since Sir Radley had been following immediately in her wake, he bumped into her.

Ashley quickly bent over pretending to adjust the end of one pant leg into her jackboot so that Sir Radley would not think she had seen him. When finally lifting her head toward the two, she did so only when certain they were prepared to be seen. Gazing up at the lovable couple, Ashley witnessed not one wit of disapproval or even disappointment at her appearance. Only a great deal of love was reflected back at her and the pure joy that she had at last come home. Lady Corliss simply could not contain herself any longer and began to hasten down the steps. Ashley met her half way. They embraced mid-stairwell. "My darling Ashley, I was so afraid they would have changed you completely. You look simply wonderful to these old eyes!" Sir Radley remained standing, hands clasped behind his back in an attempt to contain his eagerness to greet her just as informally. Ashley glanced up at him over his wife's shoulder. Their eyes met and he smiled kindly, giving her a familiar wink. _Nothing has changed,_ Ashley thought in sweet relief. _They 're still the two dear people I love most in the world._ She clasped the chubby arm of Lady Corliss under her own and they completed the steps to the second floor together. "I've brought you both presents from London. Would you like to have them now or wait until we break the fast together in the morning?"

Lady Corliss glanced up at her husband for advisement. When he only shrugged his shoulders, she made the decision, "I do so love surprises as you know, Ashley darling. But I also like to draw out the pleasure of considering just what the surprise might be. Let's wait and find out what it is over hot chocolate. Right now I know you must be quite tired and longing for your very own bed. We have your suite ready for you and a hot bath will be brought up shortly. Oh, it is so very good to have you back at Tournemouth again, my sweetest angel. Come, let me walk with you to the east wing and we can do some catching up. I'll see you shortly, Mr. Sigehere."

Sir Radley reached for Ashley's hand. "Until hot chocolate, my dear. Welcome home! You've been sorely missed." He turned to leave, but his wife's voice stopped him. "Oh, don't forget to take Remy and Pierpont with you, Mr. Sigehere." As if on cue the two feisty canines appeared at the bottom of the stairs and sat side by side looking up at them. Ashley laughed out loud. "Still testing your authority over them are they Raddie?" she questioned with an amused twinkle of laughter in her eyes. "I'm afraid so!" he chuckled. "Come on you two." The dogs remained where they were, bright eyes on Sir Radley. Glancing down at them with a look of destain, both hands resting firmly on rotund hips, he quipped, "Looks like it will be the cold hall floor for you tonight!" He turned then, as if preparing to leave. He'd not gotten more than three steps toward the south wing when in unison the two barrelled up the steps after him. "Works every time!" he jovially commented over his shoulder.

Lady Corliss rolled her eyes heavenward and both women giggled. Taking Ashley's hand gently into her own, she looked into her ward's green eyes, searching their depths for answers to her welfare. "How have you been faring at court? Tell me true, sweetest child."

Ashley suddenly felt as if she were fifteen all over again. "It's not quite what I had expected, Auntie Corliss," Ashley responded, issuing the name softly that had been affectionately agreed to some years back. "I've managed to adjust to it's rigors, somewhat. But then, I'm afraid things are very much different outside of Tournemouth from what was in the imagination of a very young girl."

"Yes, I'm quite certain you've made a valid observation. One that we all come to regarding the world sooner or later. If only a few things could hold the magic we imagined them to have as children, it wouldn't make it quite so hard. When you're fortunate, you only have to surrender those dreams and ideals bits at a time. That way its not so painful. But you've never been allowed that luxury have you, my sweet?" Lady Corliss patted her fondly as they turned toward the East Wing.

They strolled arm-in-arm in companionable silence until reaching the double entry to Ashley's suite. The doors had been left open in anticipation of her coming. Glimpsing inside from the corridor she happily saw a warm fire burning brightly in the fireplace and the familiar figure of Nannah, the lady's maid with whom she had grown up, laying out her dressing gown. Leaving Nannah had been one of the many decisions for which Ashley could not quite bring herself to forgive her Aunt Sarah. How much easier her adjustment at court would have been with at least one familiar face from home beside her. But Sarah had chastised her maid even more severely than she had herself; a fact Ashley still found intolerable to bear.

Lady Corliss noted Ashley's tired face began to ease somewhat while searching the well-known surroundings of her rooms. Drawing the young marquise into an affectionate motherly embrace and kissing her lightly on the cheek, she whispered, "There will be time for us to share all your adventures in the morning, my dear. Until then, have a most pleasant sleep."

"Goodnight, Auntie Corliss. It's truly good to be back home. You'll never know just how good."

Lady Corliss could tell by the look on Ashley's face that time at court had shredded a lot of naivety. She only hoped the queen had provided enough time away for the newness of her discoveries to take shape into solid foundations of wisdom, not the harsh skepticism that could lead to a total despairing of the human race. Seeing Ashley's shoulders droop in the belief that she was out of sight, the older woman pensively walked the distance to her own suite, finding that she was more than a little troubled over the marquise's welfare. Climbing into bed beside her husband of many years, she envied his tranquil snoring. Therefore, she could not resist nudging him into partial wakefulness. "Mr. Sigehere, are you awake?" she asked knowing full well he was not and at the same time patting him none too lightly on the shoulder.

"Mm, uh, yes, Mrs. Sigehere, what is it, what is it?" Sir Radley hoped he didn't sound as cross as he felt. He loved his wife, but found it hard to tolerate some of her idiosyncracies.

"We must be prepared to bolster Ashley's sagging morale over chocolate in the morning. I don't think the child has had a happy time of it at court at all."

"Don't worry, my dear. I don't think anyone truly enjoys all the twaddle that goes on there. I know I didn't." He drew himself into a partial sitting position. "Found the darn place most tedious and even less amusing. Nothing but a bunch of opportunists and fortune seekers there. What's even worse, they all act like they've just come into season, hopping in and out beds and trying each other on like new clothes. I found it to be most annoying and unnatural--not to mention extremely unwholesome."

"Well, no one had better tamper with our Ashley! The Tournemouth name still holds substantial power in high circles."

Sir Radley began to sink back down and tried not to yawn noticeably. "Not much we can do about it tonight, Mrs. Sigehere. Try to get some rest and don't fret. Remember our Ashley is a smart young woman and time at court makes even the strongest look weary."

"Yes, I know, dear, you're right. But I do worry so. She is too fine for that awful city filled with pestilence and unscrupulous lechers!"

"Yes, I agree. Try to sleep some," he encouraged while puffing up his own pillow.

Wide-eyed, Lady Corliss observed with pure envy her husband's closed eyes, and not much longer thereafter, his white walrus of a moustache flutter slightly through the inhaling and air expulsion of a gentle snore. Before giving into sleep herself, she made certain that Remy and Pierpont were properly settled on top of their blanket at the foot of the large bed.

Nannah had disappeared into Ashley's dressing room at the same moment the marquise had bid Lady Corliss goodnight. Returning to the large chamber belonging to the mistress of Tournemouth, Ashley realized how much she had missed the sheer size and spaciousness of these rooms. Her chamber at court was tiny, containing only a cot, a chamber pot, and a few personal essentials. In a gesture of habit, she shoved her long hair over her weary shoulders and began to loosen the belt holding the knapsack firmly in place. Hearing Nannah humming softly in the other room as she went about her work, Ashley found an unexpected comfort in the familiar strains of the ancient melody. With sounds of her mistress moving about, Nannah came hesitantly out of the dressing area to assist Ashley. Finding the young marquise sitting on a small bench at the foot of the bed attempting to pull off her tall boots, she moved in familiar quickness to assist her. The older woman was quietly greeted with a sweet smile and the kindly eyes of the younger woman she loved. Ashley longed to reach down and help Nannah remove the stubborn footwear, but if she had learned one thing from Sarah's tirade, it was that becoming too familiar with the servants made their lives more difficult. She cringed remembering her aunt's admonishment in the lack of proper mien toward an aristocratic heritage. Sarah had instructed angrily that living as an art form was considered an aristocratic attitude dating back to the Age of Chivalry and knighthood. Ashley must learn to understand this fact if there was to be any achievement of the ease and comfort conducive to the physical style of her station. She'd been strongly warned that resistance and bold comments regarding the values of society were not to be borne and that she had been most traitorous to her own kind in criticism of them through her acceptance of the rebellious concepts of democracy. She was further instructed to adopt the aristocratic perspective fundamental to the life of the nobility, and especially her existence at court. Such an outlook was to be based on the _divine right of the queen to rule_ and, by extension, of the aristocracy to support her in this mission. In the hierarchical structure of this God-given social order, the duty of the lower classes was to serve the upper classes, whose divine right it was not to work for a living. Ashley still cringed in horror at those callous words which had been spoken so forcefully in front of Nannah. Her relationship with Nannah had never returned to the same carefree level which had once existed between them. Ashley had a much different outlook on the role of the aristocracy. It included anyone who chose to improve themselves through education, the acceptance of life's virtues, and the value of aesthetics. She observed Nannah laboring over her boots. Sadness swept through her and a sudden longing for their old easy rapport. When at last the boots were pulled free, the still silent maid carefully wiped the soil from them before putting them away.

Nannah dutifully turned to open the doors, allowing the footmen bearing the bath to enter with a tub and the water to fill it. She instructed that the bathing vessel was to be placed in front of the fireplace, then stirred and added fuel to bring the flame up higher. When the footmen had left, Nannah laid Ashley's long velvet sacque the color of teal across the end of the bed, choosing a pale blue nightshift to lay next to it. She then carefully placed two delicate green satin slippers beneath the apparel on the floor. Wordlessly Nannah then helped Ashley remove the remainder of her clothing, aiding her to a sitting position inside the small tub. The warm rose scented water swirled up over Ashley's tired body and she sighed in sheer pleasure. Taking a small pitcher, Nannah moistened and massaged the hair nearest the scalp. Next she worked all into suds of crests and peaks in Ashley's dark hair. Rinsing the ringlets until shiny, squeezing the tresses free of excess water, in a familiar twist Nannah easily swirled the mass on top of Ashley's head. There it was stacked neatly in place with strategically placed pins. Ashley lay a tired head on the high back rim of the tub, closing her eyes. Moisture had caused the lashes on her face to gather into minute star points whose ends hovered just above the beginnings of pink stained cheeks. Nannah never grew tired of witnessing this stunning beauty. She paused briefly, caught up in an old state of awe that always came over her. Turning to reach for a vile of scented oil and adding a few more drops in the bath water, she turned away.

Ashley conscientiously tried to discern the state of her familiar companion and saw instantly that Nannah was as tense and uncomfortable as she. Her round flushed face was much too serious for the merry countenance Ashley was used to and she noticed that periodically Nannah would nervously ring her hands. There were now traces of silver intertwined in the blonde braids neatly done up in a coronet on top of her head and lines about the gray eyes Ashley didn't remember. "Thank you, Nannah. Please go to bed now. I know you must be tired. I won't need you in the morning."

"Yes, my lady," Nannah said, while making a shallow curtsey.

As the door quietly closed, a single tear rolled down Ashley's face. _This is the last I 'll shed tears over the loss of the past,_ she vowed silently. _Nothing is or ever will be simple again._ Deep in her heart Ashley instinctively knew that Queen Anne was about to change her life forever. Tournemouth was too strategically located, too great a prize to utilize in political manipulations to remain unencumbered by such for long. _There must be some courtier she needs to reward,_ Ashley thought with a frown creasing her brow. She would allow her mind to scrutinize that possibility more thoroughly. _Perhaps it 's a man that has not inherited an estate and needs to marry into one. Land is the only acceptable source of income and a courtier that does not inherit must either marry a fortune to purchase land or have it given to him by the Queens favor. Which is it to be, Anne,_ she mentally queried, _and why just now? Is this one of Aunt Sarah 's greedy ploys or one of the queen's own making?_ Ashley's great eyes flew open, filling rapidly with an ominous rage. Standing abruptly, she caused the water to slosh out onto the hearth, hissing and spitting in a sound that matched her mood. Grabbing up a large towel, she wrapped it swiftly about her nude body, securing it easily at one shoulder. In heated agitation she flopped a huge cushion down in front of the fireplace and removed the pins in her hair. Taking her fingers and pushing her locks to the side of her head closest to the fire, she picked up a wide tooth comb and proceeded to untangle and separate each strand in order that it might dry more quickly. Without much concentration on the task at hand, her nimble fingers worked systematically through the thick strands, skillfully coaxing them into a natural mass of curls that hung to her waist. Unmindful of the beauty she was creating about her troubled face, at that moment Ashley cared nothing in the least for her striking appearance.

_What manner of man will I be forced to accept,_ she worried? _Whoever it is, Anne is about to offer me up either as the means of satisfying his need to marry an estate, or a fortune, or as his additional reward for some favor performed for the crown. I 'm sure of it! One thing was also certain_-- _he would definitely be of the aristocracy!_ As her mind raced ahead it conjured up a hateful picture. _As with royalty, membership in the aristocracy is conferred by birth and a gentleman 's breeding is his major asset. Anne is very strict about the continuance and purification of noble line._

_No, the queen would not be offer her up to a member of the bourgeoisie, even if he were a man of great wealth and honor. It would be someone from the aristocracy. Someone who would be allowed to cheat_ -- _though not at cards,_ she thought mutinously-- _someone who had run up debts, borrowed, or even killed without losing claim to gentility and it definitely would not be someone who was seen as working for a living._ Ashley stood at that thought, hands gripping slim hips, staring at the fire. _Breeding_!! She felt as if she had suddenly become part of the procreation of some kind of prize stock. _Breeding was conferred by divine right, so the evidence of it_ -- _the comportment of oneself according to the accepted code of manners_ -- _must be displayed with the effortless ease of someone to the manner born. Should this someone ape or copy a manner, it would be a sure sign that he was not born to it. I 've learned the art at court of distinguishing between the true wit and the false wit who inevitably becomes the cruel butt of laughter. True wit or the acceptable manner of the polite code,_ she surmised with heightening chagrin and a not so fond remembrance of the Duchess of Marlborough, _had to be learned of course. A true gentleman must learn the art of sitting a horse, lolling in a coach, dancing a minuet, writing a poem, and paying court to a woman. But, he must never appear learned! No, for that would exhibit a stiffness or an extravagance, and any form of excess was to be abhorred. The art of living must be absorbed as if through ones pores, which, of course, could only come to one born to it_! Ashley balled up her towel and tossed it angrily into a chair. Her bare feet padded determinedly to the bedside where she gathered up the soft material of her nightshift and tossed it carelessly over her head. Yanking it down she made certain it covered the full length of her. She sat none too softly on the bed and stuck her feet into the dainty satin slippers Nannah had placed there. Lifting them momentarily off of the floor to study their effect on her feet, her mind clamored forward in its judiciousness. _Sincerity, indulgence in emotion_ -- _these were not regarded as virtues. Therefore, what I 'm doing at this very moment isn't virtuous,_ she decided slamming her feet back down on the floor. _And, if this is so, how can I end up with a man who would ever have one compelling thought? Should a gentleman turn out to be articulate, he must utilize it as an exercise of gentlemanly wit_ -- _an amusing hobby, but certainly not a profession. Heavens! A profession would smack of too much of work! The inner man must be judged solely by his outer manner, which above all is to show the controlled and polished mask of the gentleman. This being so,_ Ashley contemplated more savagely, _I could very easily end up with a mean-spirited cad who treats me in accordance to polite code in public and abuses me in private. If this is the kind of man Anne has chosen to thrust at me, I shall simply have to kill him_! Ashley grinned at the lack of magnanimity of such a thought. _But then, what if he 's truly all I have ever dreamt of or sought in a man? Then Aunt Sarah will have been justified in sending me to court. For, he would not be intelligent, nor, even more importantly, have savvy unless he is most certainly court-oriented! But, here's the true catch! If he's a gentleman of the court, then he'll view living in the country as unfashionable and see me as a clod! London, to such a man, means the center of the social season, and I'll require that he must love Tournemouth more if we're to be truly compatible. It's as I thought,_ Ashley finalized in grim despair, _there 'll be no perfect match for me. My only hope is to marry someone malleable and of my own choosing. Let's hope my intuition is wrong and the queen has not as yet selected a mate for me_!

She stood and slipped into the velvet sacque, stepping down off the raised platform from the giant canopied bed as she did. Moving through the soft moonlight pouring in from the tall Palladian windows that covered one complete side of the room, she advanced to the book shelves on the adjoining wall. There her hungry gaze roved over the multiple leather bound texts until at last they settled on one in particular. She reached and pulled forth a favorite. It was a copy of Antoine Gallad's translation of _The Thousand and One Nights._ Moving a candelabra into place, she curled up among the cushions on a window seat and sat gazing out over the topiary with eyes considering the effect of the moon's rays on the white marble statues, shrubbery, trees, and reflecting pool. It had long been her custom since the death of her parents to find comfort in the landscape surrounding Tournemouth, reading herself into drowsiness. Lifting the book from her lap, she pondered the group of favorite tales within. Tales that had been passed down by word of mouth from many lands throughout the East, then finally formalized by bazaar storytellers. Her tutor in the Greek classics had told her that she would find many of the stories similar to those told in the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey._ Ashley carefully lifted the cover off of the first page and thought with childish anticipation about the characters Scheherazade, Periebanou, and the Princess Nouronnihar. Unable to choose which tale she would like to read first, she played an old game with herself, closing the book once more to begin. Shutting eyes tightly, her fingers ran along the page edges of the book until at last compelled to curl inward, then she opened the text where her nails sunk between the pages.

She started to read and found herself caught up in the portion about Periebanou, a fairy living in a mountain at whose door Ahmed finds his arrow. He marries her and with her help performs the unreasonable tasks set out for him by his father. She remembered that his father had been persuaded by courtiers to be suspicious of his son who was now leading a secretive life and apparently had grown rich and powerful. Then the sultan is killed by Periebanou's annoyed brother and Ahmed succeeds him as sultan. The tale took on an all new meaning since returning from the court of Queen Anne. _Nothing it would seem,_ she considered sleepily, _has changed much in human nature since ancient times._ Reading further, it wasn't long until her head began to nod. She had great difficulty keeping her eyes open. Determining to stand, she stretched while blowing out the candles, then made her way back across the moonlit floor removing the French robe as she went, she climbed eagerly into bed.

Ashley was awakened in the early morning hours by the clatter of multiple hooves in the inner courtyard beneath her windows. She rolled over onto her stomach lazily and shoved her nose into the eyelet edged pillows. The commotion in the courtyard below seemed to accelerate. With head never leaving the pillow and her eyes remaining shut, Ashley drew her knees up under her, raising only her lower half from the mattress under the covers. Her lids refused to open and she let her feet slide back down toward the end of the bed. The pinpoint aches on various portions of her anatomy told her she had grown unaccustomed to riding astraddle. She determined at that moment that perhaps a few more hours sleeping would suit her condition just fine. She had just found a comfortable position and tucked the covers neatly about her the way she would have them, when a soft rap came at the door. _Go away,_ she thought she would say, then the knock came again. The word _shoo_ came to mind, but somehow that didn't seem to cover it forcefully enough. Ashley's groggy brain decided to do nothing. The door creaked open a crack and Ashley heard an uneasy voice that was completely unfamiliar to her.

"Excuse me, mum, but Lady Corliss sent me to tell you that the queen's guards have arrived and the Captain is very anxious to have a word with you."

There was no further creaking sound and the door must have remained open only that small crack through which the girl had spoken. Ashley started to answer but her words were muffled in the pillow. Lifting her head ever so slightly through a slight grimace of discomfort, she answered softly in an attempt not to wake up completely, "No."

"Beg pardon, mum?"

Ashley's eyes remained shut. Her head had once again sunk into the pillow. Then one cognitive eye opened canvassing the area it could dimly see. This turned out to be only the ruffled top of another pillow. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head a little higher, wincing as she did. "No." She intentionally aimed her response somewhat louder toward the direction of the crack in the door, then turned her head to the other side, proceeding to get comfortable again.

This time the voice of the strange person came from the other side of the closed drapes that hung around the giant bed. "Excuse me again, mum, but Lady Corliss said the captain would not take no for an answer. He wants to see for himself that you have arrived safely. Lady Corliss needs to know what to do."

Both of Ashley's eyes opened and she scowled. Flipping slowly over onto her back, she lay blinking into the dimness of the curtained enclosure. Time seemed suspended in thoughtlessness and Ashley suddenly felt surly. She started to answer, but the maid spoke first.

"What would you have me tell her, mum, she is most anxious." The girl heard a great expulsion of breath from the other side of the curtain.

"Tell Lady Corliss to convey this message from me to the _captain_ exactly in these words. He is to go out to the inner courtyard, walk to the building he will see to his left side and report immediately under the third window. I will appear before that very window giving him the opportunity to see that without a doubt I have arrived safe and sound. Is that clear?"

"Yes, mum."

Ashley waited until she heard the door close. Then with much stiffness of limbs, she slid over to the side of the bed, rolled back the covers, pushed aside the heavy curtains, and stepped out from between the draperies. The light hit her eyes with an uncalled for exuberance and the floor felt shockingly cold beneath her bare feet. A number of expletives came to mind, but she resisted the temptation to allow them to cross her lips. The fire had gone out in her room and since it was still early, no one had come to relight it. Realizing she had left her robe on the other side of the bed, she tiptoed around, opening the drapes in order to locate the teal sacque. At the same moment she found it, she located her slippers. Making her way back across her chamber and over to the third window as promised, Ashley opened up the sash and peeked out. The young captain of the guards had yet to appear beneath that window. She stood waiting for long chilly minutes shivering in the cold and decided she would take these idle moments to go to her vanity in the dressing room and check her appearance in the mirror. Frowning ferociously at the sleepy reflection staring back at her, she poured some water in the wash basin located on a small stand, then splashed cold water over her face, grimaced and rinsed out her mouth with additional water poured into a tumbler. Going back to her poudreuse, she picked up a silver brush and gave her hair a vigorous but careless grooming, tying it to the back of her neck with a piece of blue ribbon she had found. It was at that moment the realization hit her that there must be a tiny crack in the porcelain wash basin for the water inside was leaking slowly onto the tiles of the floor. Annoyed with herself for filling it with so much liquid, she tried to think what to do. In a moment of clarity, it occurred to her that she had left the window open. Racing outside the dressing room across the floor of her bedchamber to see if the captain had arrived in the courtyard as yet, she once again peeked out and saw that he still was not there. Hurrying quickly back to the leaking container, she lifted it off of its stand and proceeded awkwardly back across the floor to the open window, trying not to spill the sloshing contents on the way. Happily she realized she had made it without spilling one single drop and hurled the water out the window quickly before she actually did.

"What beetlebrain idiot is responsible for projecting the contents of a piss-pot out the window!!" the voice of an angry male was heard to yell loudly from a few feet below the sill.

Ashley's hands flew up to her mouth and she quickly drew herself away from the window to hide on the wall space next to the opened sash. She attempted without success to prevent the sounds of giggling surprise. Gathering her courage, she peeked between the edge of the drape and the window frame to see if she could make out what had happened below. The stern blonde captain of the queen's guards stood dripping in the courtyard with his boot clad feet planted aggressively apart. He lifted one arm and sniffed the sleeve of his wet uniform. "Well, by the fortune of the gods, its not piss after all!" he declared happily, turning laughing eyes up toward the window only to see a small portion of a teal sleeve at the edge of the opening. "Was that your message, my lady?"

Ashley stepped in full view of the open window, attempting to scowl down at him in annoyance. "Had it been, my good Captain, I assure you it would not have missed its mark! Your language, sir, is abominable. Haven't you heard that a law was passed against the use of such profanity?"

"Ah yes, my lady, but that was before George Monck rescued our good King Charlie, was it not? Do you really think that law is effective today?"

Ashley leaned forward with green eyes flashing. There was nothing she loved better than the challenge of wit and the ensuing banter. Licking her lips in anticipation of her delicious reply she said, "Tell me, my good and noble officer of the royal court. Would you have spoken thus to Queen Anne?" She arched a black winged brow in simulation of stern rebuke, "Oh, and since you brought up merry King Charlie. Have you ever been to Parliament Square in Edinburgh?"

"I am afraid I've not been given the privilege of serving Her Majesty in Scotland, my lady." The fair-haired captain had now crossed his arms over his chest. As he spoke, he lifted one arm to place an arrogant index finger to his chin in seemingly thoughtful application.

"Well, if you'd been there, you would have seen an interesting remembrance for those who choose to overlook the good teachings of the church. A statue of Charles shares the square with John Knox, the divine. Wouldn't you deem that an interesting juxtaposition? One could almost consider it an omen!"

The captain looked up at Ashley with laughter still in his eyes, "Come to think of it, I heard about that, my lady. But a rumor has it that beneath the hooves of Charles' horse is Knox's tomb."

"A warning to tread carefully, I'm sure!" she warned him.

"Touche, mademoiselle! I promise to do likewise." He suddenly grew quite serious. "May I say, my lady, it is good to see you well. I was concerned for your own health when you left us so abruptly. Might I beg of you to make my task easier and stay within my eyesight from now on. I fear if you don't, unlike King Charles and the divine Knox, I'll suffer an unmarked quite unremembered grave."

Ashley leaned out placing both elbows on the window ledge. "Surely you jest, Captain!"

The eyes of the captain grew icy and the previously warm smile became frosty. "I do not jest about matters as serious as my own life. The queen has warned me that if I don't keep track of your every move until you're returned safely to her court, I'll suffer such a penalty. Her majesty has ordered me, as the head of your royal escort, to protect you from any unwanted dalliances, either instigated by others, or perhaps even yourself. I am compelled to advise you, Lady Tournemouth, that I take such a threat against my reputation and well-being quite seriously and will do everything in my power to follow my sovereign's commands--even if its means stepping over the bounds of protocol between us. Do I make myself clear?"

Ashley's eyes widened at his unrelenting arrogance, then narrowed angrily, "You've made yourself quite clear, Captain!" Withdrawing quickly from the window, she brought the sash down with a resounding snap. "How fortunate I was to have unknowingly aimed the basin so well! I hope he gets the dropsy and a thousand plagues!" she snapped to the empty room about her. Ashley found herself angrily pacing the floor. _So, I 'm right about being the queen's pawn! Perhaps it's time to discover where Aunt Sarah fits into all this._

To set up your completion of this Historical Journey push this Authors link or search for Vernanne Bryan online:  
To Key A Marquis

# SUBLIME INTERVENTION

## A Romantic-Adventure  
of the Napoleonic  
and Hanovarian Age

### Vernanne Bryan

# PASSPORT

**_Dedicated to:_**  
**_Your_**  
**_Historical Adventure_**

**_Your Travel Visa_**  
**_" Sublime Intervention"_**
_During the French Revolution, political and parental authority were broken, religious beliefs were dismissed, and the individualism of the French people burst forth in awful and violent ways; moderately in the provinces, but the capital, the center of law, was witness to chaos and horrible bloodshed. Napoleon himself had been lawless, but he was determined to restore stability and regenerate Frances morals and manners. Josephine did away with her adulterous dalliances. The new Code gave the husband rule over his wife and children, similar to that of the ancient Roman powers Napoleon so wished to reflect._

_To keep the result from mimicking the old aristocracy, Napoleon conceived that some form of class distinction would occur from natural diversity of abilities, so he established the Legion of Honor. This legion was composed of men chosen by the government who had climbed to high positions of rank through their excellence in the fields of military, law, religion, culture, art, science, and scholarship. It was only a part democratic life_ -- _all men were eligible, but women were not. Members were sworn to support the principles underlying liberty and equality; but soon the class structure Napoleon predicted began, grading their merit by influence or tenure._

_Thus a new aristocracy was formed to bring continuity between the illustrious France of the past and the new. Still unsatisfied, Napoleon turned to the survivors of the old nobility, luring them back to his country. Keenly interested in the Jacobite heritage for innumerable reasons, both political and personal, Napoleon would deliberately seek out those nobles upholding the independent kingdom of Scotland, the ancient stronghold of liberty. But the Stuarts, ever wary of Hanoverian propaganda and being utilized as political pawns in their European exile, would ward off and instrument all manner of devices to avoid being compromised in that unrelenting snare._

_As time advanced forward in the manipulations, Napoleon would find his own liberty precarious._

# PROLOGUE

It was an absolutely breathtaking day outside the library of the Chateau de Touissant. Darcy looked longingly out of the window to keep her green eyes occupied, lest the drone of her old domestic tutor cause their lashes to droop down over her cheeks as they longed to in response to the monotonous intonations of his vocal cords. She wiggled her toes in her slippers, allowing them to express inconspicuously her desire to leap up and fling herself through the open doors into the vast courtyard and gardens just outside. She'd heard enough for a lifetime about how the Vikings had invaded the province of Normandy centuries ago and instead of ravishing it, stayed to cultivate it. That same Viking blood was running through her veins and it was her fervent wish to enjoy some of this historical cultivation on such an incredibly delectable day. Usually she would have listened avidly about William the Conqueror defeating the forces of King Harold at the Battle Abbey, but the English and French had been consistently at each others throats since that time. Today was not the day to be contemplating that conflict or its possible contemporary resolutions. Why couldn't Monsieur save the topic for inclement weather!

She lowered her eyes to a smaller more interesting book, one she was most certain would not be a text selected by her teacher for the benefit of her enlightenment. It was easily hidden, however, in the folds of the larger history book propped up on the wooden stand in front of her. Morality! It was a subject that had absorbed the interest of Napoleon and was certainly at the center of her immediate existence as a young Christian Frenchwoman. The legal age of marriage in France was fourteen for the male, twelve for the female--and usually mercenary. Men and women were maritally desirable according to wealth. This fact highly annoyed Darcy. Most of the mothers of the young ladies Darcy knew were scheming day and night to marry their daughters to money. Thank God her parents had not entertained such degrading monetary inclinations! At least none that she knew about anyway, but she planned to be fully educated should the topic arise in the near future. At eighteen she was six years past the initiation of this relational venture. It was impossible that she should remain free of the marital responsibility for much longer. Especially not with Napoleon rumbling around in the ancestral closets of his people in an attempt to bring back the more glorious aspects of the aristocracy.

Darcy took a quick glance up at her tutor. As she expected, he was totally absorbed in his own lecture. Running her fingers lightly over the text written by an Englishwoman she greatly admired, Darcy attempted a quiet re-entry into the pages of the last paragraph she had been reading before hurriedly leaving off. She skimmed its contents in the attempt to move on with it. _Nature, music, poetry, and gallantry all tend to make women the creatures of sensation,... and this overstretched sensibility naturally relaxes the other powers of the mind, and prevents intellect from attaining that sovereignty which it ought to attain_-- _for the exercise of the understanding, as life advances, is the only method pointed out by Nature to calm the passions._ She felt her tutor's eyes upon her and looked at him with feigned seriousness of contemplation, then nodded for him to continue to show her comprehension of what he had been saying. She then waited patiently as he reabsorbed himself into his thought processes. As for her own, they had begun to be filled with the passionate writing of Mary Wollstonecraft who had dedicated her book, _The Vindication of the Rights of Woman_ to Monsieur Talleyrand-Perigord, late Bishop of Autun. Mary had suggested that since the Constituent Assembly had proclaimed the Rights of Man, it was obligated to establish a Declaration of the Rights of Woman.

Darcy remembered that thought in great excitement. _Just think what it would be like to become a representative in the English parliament, instead of being governed without having any direct representation in the deliberations of the government._ But even more important to Darcy was being made aware of the sexually based legislation to which Mary had recently opened her eyes in the discussions of the laws of primogeniture and entail. Here the laws had been even crueler to women for only a moment's departure from chastity, while men kept their respectability during the indulgence of vice, a condition that truly angered Darcy! Mary had gone so far as to shockingly suggest that women had the right to feel, or to confess physical satisfaction in coitus! Upon reading that choice bit of news, Darcy thought about her mother's cautious confession that the physical relationship with her father was one of absolute joy. This wondrous fact had been disclosed during a long walk to the far side of the garden. But in the end, Darcy had pondered the way Wollstonecraft had punctuated this amazing pronouncement for women by seriously warning both sexes, that _love considered an animal appetite cannot long feed itself without expiring;_ for indeed _it is the most evanescent of all passions._ If passion were short lasting, why then were her parents still so very much in love, both in mind and body? Maybe, she had hoped, there were exceptions. If not--why get married at all!

Nearly all a woman's faults were due to inequalities of education and men convincing women that their best and sweetest empire was to please! Mary resented the fripperies and artifices this attempt to please brought out in women and had looked with envy upon those Frenchwomen who insisted on acquiring an education, learning to write letters that were the best products of the French mind! _In France there is understandably a more general diffusion of knowledge than in any other part of the European world, and I attribute it,_ Mary had written, _in part measure, to the social intercourse that has long subsisted between the sexes. I am a Frenchwoman,_ Darcy reflected proudly.

On that note, Darcy unwittingly slammed the book shut as the overwhelming thought occurred to her that it was a privilege for a woman to be educated! Here she sat, toying with the aspects of a beautiful day, ignoring the efforts of her tutor to inform and teach her, while others of her sex were refused this right! Maybe that's what her mother had meant when she had told her she must prove worthy of being educated! Glancing up, she realized Monsieur was looking at her through narrowed eyes over the top of his spectacles. She quickly hid Wollstonecraft's text within the folds of her gown and nodded emphatically for her tutor to continue. Mary's words were still ringing in her head, _the ideal of woman 's emancipation should be the educated mother in equal union with an educated male_! Still, as the warm afternoon droned on, her eyes could not help but turn back to the beautiful summer day. _Becoming educated was a great sacrifice,_ Darcy decided with a sigh.

She'd heard some astounding rumors about Mary Wollstonecraft. How she had come to France after publishing her astoundingly bold treatise, then fallen in love with an American during the massacres and the terror of the revolution. She had borne a child out of wedlock because the man would not marry her, returned to England, and then tried to drown herself in the Thames. A year later, Mary had met William Godwin and became his common-law wife because neither of them believed the government had the right to regulate their marriage. Then, in a complete reverse of that ideology, she had married in secret for the sake of their expected child. What really puzzled Darcy about this whole affair was the shame the two had felt over their legality. They had gone so far as to conceal it from all their radical friends, keeping it a secret that they were no longer living in sin. But Mary had sadly died ten days after giving birth to her baby. _How emancipated was such a life,_ Darcy questioned, watching a butterfly light gracefully in the midst of the multiple petals of a bright red flower. She shook herself from her revery, wondering why the room had grown so quiet, then discovered she was all alone. Somewhere in her mind Darcy vaguely remembered Monsieur dismissing her for the day, packing up his books in the worn leather case, and leaving. She hoped she had responded in some appropriate manner or it was certain her father would hear of her daydreaming. As on previous occasions of such conduct, she would be summoned to his quarters for an explanation!

Closing her history text, she rose slowly while stretching her limbs. It had been difficult pretending to be interested in Monsieur's endless historical recital. She was actually stiff from this strained effort. As she stood, the hidden Wollstonecraft book dropped with a loud thud on the polished wood floor of the library. Darcy reached down to retrieve it guiltily just as a soft breeze slipped in through the open French doors behind Monsieur's desk. It wrapped itself playfully around her, bringing with it the sweet earthy scents from the garden, beckoning and enticing her toward the open doors. Just as she passed her tutor's desk in response, the breeze mischievously picked up the edge of a piece of parchment, moving it across the desk's surface. It gave Darcy just enough time to quickly recognize the uniform penmanship of her old teacher. The note was directed to her!

_Dear Mademoiselle Touissant,_ it began, each letter reminding her of the precision required in her own hand, _I regret to inform you that this will be my last day in service as tutor at the Chateau de Touissant. I have advised your father that I believe the natural development of your maternal nature has obviously begun. Whatever it is about this progression that tends to incapacitate young women, it has now become most evident in your behavior. This being the case, I have inquired about, and accepted a post in the home of a young gentleman, where I have judged my knowledge will be much better served. Mademoiselle, I am most certain, will make some man a most handsome wife. God hasten that inevitability!_ It was signed, _Professeur Phillippot._

"Oh dear! This will never do!" Darcy cried out vehemently to all the silent writers of the leather bound books on the shelves surrounding her. She would go immediately to her mother and plead her case--if she could just think what that was! Why couldn't she have been cleverer in her guise to appear alert and interested; but, Monsieur was such a complete bore! He never made anything he discussed or taught come alive! Suddenly, she quite pitied the young man who was about to be the recipient of Professeur Philippot's lectures. That was it! She would go and complain to her father, before he could scold her, and demand another teacher! One important lesson of consequence Darcy had learned from all the battles she had studied was that a good offense was the best defense! She would attack first!

Hastening along the hallway to her mother's chambers, her mind rehearsed the information she had garnered from Wollstonecraft's book. Now was the time to put forth these wise feminine arguments. She would do so and find out if they were effective to her own cause. But, it was not to be. Darcy had just been in the comforting throes of believing she had slipped by her father's study successfully when his deep authoritarian voice called out to her in the commanding tones of the general that he was. She halted in her tracks, then turned slowly and walked back into his study, her heart pounding in trepidation. This would be a great test for her mental processes as her father was a renowned military tactician. As she appeared in the entry to his special domestic domain she felt his keen burgundy eyes assessing her. There had been a time when this had intimidated her immensely. Long ago, however, she had learned she completely had his heart. No, her sweaty palms were from anticipation of the brilliant mind she was about to confront.

"Come in, young lady, and tell me where you are going in such a hurry? It's a beautiful day! Shouldn't you be in the gardens?" he asked with a wide smile. "I told Professeur Philippot to dismiss you before he left and that you should take your oils and easel outside. It's much too nice a day to be cooped up in the library listening to some stuffy old lecture! Wouldn't you agree, Darcy?"

She eyed her father cautiously. Knowing him, he was not about to let the fact of her tutor's resignation go by this easily. _Well, nothing like the honest approach,_ she thought, and launched directly into her campaign for a new tutor. "Not at all, father. I simply have felt lately that Professeur Philippot was not taking me as seriously as he should."

"Really?" he asked her, but doubt was in his eyes.

Seeing the need to hurry forward, she rushed headlong into her argument, "Yes, really! His stance assumes the faults of women and only increases the merit of his posture by denying me an education! In doing so, he subjects me to these failings by leaving me to the more established feminine affectations of weakness and timidity only to please a man's assumption of superiority. I shall become addicted to cards, gossip, astrology, sentimentality, and literary trash! What's more I shall end up being the bane of your finances because of my new absorption in dress and self-admiration. This is hardly what you would want for your only daughter, is it father?" She sat in perfect lady-like composure on the edge of her seat, back straight, chin high, feet closely held together, her gown impeccably arranged about her satin slippers. She deliberately kept her eyes wide in direct innocent appeal. Waiting for the results of her opening assault was excruciating.

Gautier Touissant studied his daughter with pleasure. He had listened intently to his wife's plea that his only child had all the intelligence of any man and should be given the opportunity to overcome the custom of entail of a father who had no living son to inherit his estate. Besides, he didn't like the idea of leaving his daughter dependent, so he had been willing to overlook a great deal in her favor. But lately he was beginning to wonder if this had been completely the wise thing to do. Perhaps he had been expecting too much. She was six years past marital age. Even Napoleon had questioned his motives for delaying his daughter's marriage. Now with the ruler seeking ways to entice back members of the old aristocracy, Darcy had become a prime candidate for that venture. The emperor had insinuated as much to him only days ago.

'Tell me, Darcy, what kind of tutor would you prefer? I assume by your passionate persuasion this is what you are asking of me--a new tutor?"

"Yes, father, it is," she responded, wary of his quick observation. "I was hoping that you could find someone with a little more enthusiasm and imagination to bring vibrancy to my lessons. Possibly someone younger? Now that I have received this missive from Professeur Philippot, it is obvious that my teacher is prejudiced against me. How can I learn from a man who does not believe women should be educated past a certain age?" Darcy handed her tutor's note to her father.

Already aware of its contents, Gautier quickly glanced at Philippot's note and tossed it aside on his desk. "Napoleon believes you should marry, Darcy. He has mentioned several prospects to me in the past few weeks. I have avoided giving my consent, but as you well know you are already six years past the marital age. I am only delaying the inevitable," he sighed. "Still, I promised your mother I would give you a chance to prove yourself worthy of becoming my sole heir. What makes you think you deserve more time?"

Darcy sucked in her breath. Her mind was spinning for the right answer. Twice she opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. When her father sighed again in frustration, however, she dove into the heart of her argument for a new tutor and time. She surprised herself at how adamantly the words tumbled out of her mouth. "The French, father, admit more of mind into their ideas of beauty. They give preference to women of thirty which they say have allowed a woman to develop into her most perfect state, when her vivacity gives place to reason and to that majestic seriousness of character which marks maturity."

"Darcy! I will not give you until you are thirty, and most certainly, Napoleon will not!"

"Of course not, father, but I have yet to reach my twentieth birthday," she pled confidently. "Surely you can see the wisdom of more time? When a woman is in her twenties, the flexible muscles of the face grow daily with the embellishments of experience and learning, giving character to the countenance. This provides a map of the powers within and how they will be employed. I must be given the time and the proper tutor to discover my own empowerment. In doing so, it will bring proof to you of my capabilities of being your heir and a richer, wiser treasure, for a husband. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Perhaps." Her father raised his brows slowly. "You've attempted a convincing and tactical argument, Darcy. For this alone, I will provide you with a new tutor--and a bit more time. But I must warn you, Napoleon is actively seeking marital material to lure the young of the old aristocracy back to enrich his empire with their refined and learned minds. He worries about the lack of polish and knowledge amongst the remaining French population. It has already been suggested that you would be a worthy and most enticing inducement for this campaign. Tread carefully, Darcy, and learn your lessons well. I will do all I can to delay for your benefit, but not many are able to deny the great Napoleon what he wants in the end. You are free for now. Go, daughter, and paint me one of your beautiful pictures."

Darcy leapt from the chair, crossing over to her father to place a kiss on his worried cheek. _No wonder mother loves him so dearly,_ she thought. She turned and blew another kiss upon leaving his study. Yes! She had acquired extra time. What's more, she was free at this very moment--that is, until the new tutor would arrive. But that could take days and then she must truly buckle down or she would certainly not be able to advance to the next step-- proving the capability of wisely choosing her own mate for life.

Before painting her picture, however, she retraced her steps back to the library in order to rescue Wollstonecraft's book from the place where she had carelessly laid it.

Gautier watched his daughter's long dark hair catch the afternoon sun from the window of his study. The long tresses swayed gently beneath the bonnet in rhythm with the movement of her graceful walk. She was a tall willowy young woman with a figure to take a man's breath away and a face that would quickly render him in awed speechlessness with it's perfect oval symmetry. His brows knitted together with fatherly worry, knowing he could not protect her from the cruelty, greed, and lust of the outside world forever.

It had taken all his tactical acumen to keep Napoleon from discovering the beautiful woman into which his daughter had blossomed. The man was not stupid. The ruler had an eye for gorgeous women. Gautier knew he had witnessed Darcy from afar on her eleventh birthday, prophesying to him then that she was bound to grow into a real beauty. Nothing missed Napoleon's incredibly vibrant orbs and Gautier had had a devil of a time keeping Darcy completely out from under their keenly searching scrutiny. He must come up with a plan to protect her, giving her a chance to find the kind of love he shared with her mother. Perhaps, if he was very clever, he could satisfy Napoleon and still provide a love match for the daughter he adored. It would take careful planning and infinite timing. Satisfied, he knew he was quite capable of both. He would begin by appealing to Napoleon's ambitions to gain back the aristocracy of the past through his strong desire to reestablish literacy and morality among his subjects. Gautier would initiate this effort by counseling with his old friend Jacque-Rose Recamier.

Jacque was a banker and had recently purchased the home of Jacques Necker, on the Rue due Mont-Blanc. Six years ago, Recamier had married a girl of sixteen, known to her friends as Juliette. Like Darcy, Juliette was endowed with beauty of face and figure and had developed almost every known possible charm of the feminine character. She was kind, tactful, sympathetic, graceful, tender, tasteful and added to these lovely characteristics was a sensuous pliancy that had stirred many males without any threat to her virginity. Gautier had been to their home many times and witnessed the face of his friend standing in rapt silence listening to Juliette sing or observing her delicate hands on the pianoforte or harp in proud appreciation. Recamier, to a certain extent, was the kind of husband Gautier had wanted for Darcy. He cushioned Juliette with every comfort. What was even more astounding, he never insisted on his conjugal rights. Juliette was now twenty-two and would make a good and wise companion for Darcy. Gautier was sure of it. As soon as he could arrange it, he would visit La Recamier's salon.

# CHAPTER I

Veronique Touissant sat petulantly in her bath, putting up with the maids' hard scrubbing of her limbs and body, and their tedious administration to the care of her hair and complexion. Long ago she had managed to escape into a world of her own during her _r egime._ She would be thirty-four in a matter of days. Birthdays to her meant only another day on the calendar, but for Gautier they were an occasion for a grand celebration. In the nineteen years she had been married to Gautier, he had risen far from the young officer he had then been in the French Army. Napoleon relished his tactical advice and his keen mind had maintained the Touissant's position of wealth and importance in the new French government. It was Gautier's crafty intelligence that had kept them alive during the revolution. He was now an important member in the new Legion of Honor and a major political player in the formulation of what would inevitably be hailed as the new aristocracy.

Veronique was loved, adored, and pampered with every possible material acquisition that Gautier could provide for her, but his most important gift was his undying loyalty and love. She in turn had grown to love him with all her heart and marveled at the passion that was still between them, even though they were much separated by his position and circumstances. The revolution had eliminated many of her childhood friends, replacing them with the new, leaving her feeling that she still really had none-- none she could trust, that is, to the endless hours she spent alone.

One child had been born to them in the chaotic and stressful years of the revolution, a little girl, but no other pregnancies had occurred. Though Gautier had longed for a son, he had loved her too much to set her aside for that possibility. Her married life, love, and security were thus assured. Still she longed for something of which she could not quite yet define. Sensing that the maids were ending their ministrations by feeling the addition of hot water to her bath, she waved them away for the time she allotted to soak and have her own private thoughts.

It was during these moments she allowed herself total freedom. _The problem is,_ she contemplated while dipping the tapered ends of her fingertips into the bath water, _it is not just enough to live by the rules. Yes, I have managed to live by them, but sometimes it is constricting, extremely constricting, yet on the whole I have managed. My home is organized and well run. The bills are paid on time. I never go out unescorted and yet I haven 't any friends. What's to be done? How can I use the endless hours that present themselves to me? Most of the new French citizens don't interest me in the least. I could paint, sew, garden. It used to be a solution, but as the years have gone by it appeals to me less and less. Nothing seems to halt the ever-increasing moments of isolation, filled with an all-consuming emptiness which only fortifies the foreboding that my existence is nearing a painfully boring end._ Veronique felt herself becoming pleasantly depressed.

Suddenly the door to her bathing chamber opened slightly and Veronqiue was drawn from the dark corner of depression toward the glowing radiance of youth and _bon vivant_ that was her beautiful daughter. Though Darcy was the only child given to her at the young age of fifteen, their relationship was more like that of sisters. Her daughter's green eyes were now filled with a kind of mischief that was quick to spread its contagion into her own eyes of a similar hue. She smiled and beckoned for Darcy to enter and seat herself on the edge of the bathing vessel.

It was a joy visiting her gorgeous mother when she soaked in her gilt tub. The room was always filled with a comfortable moisture and the marvelous scent of bottled fragrances released into the air. Quite often in this relaxed condition, Darcy could coax from her the same rare and rebellious thoughts that dared to enter her own mind. In doing so, it created the rapport of _entre nous_ that Darcy craved and sensed that her mother did too. _" Bonjour, momi_! I have news that I think will be of interest to you!" Darcy flounced down in a whoosh of skirts at the edge of the bath, coming very close to wetting her silk gown.

_" Sacre bleu,_ Darcy! Careful with your lovely dress! Is this news you have _au courant,_ or are you going to tell me you finally managed to get rid of Professeur Philippot. If that is the case, _ma ch ere,_ it is old news. However, I must tell you, you have done well. I am proud of you!"

Their musical laughter filled the room.

"Really, _momi_? You don't mind?"

"Absolutely not. I don't know how you have endured him this long, except that you have such an exceptional mind. How do you like Mary Wollstonecraft?" Veronique asked, lifting her lovely winged brows simultaneously with those of her daughter's.

"Have you read her, _momi_?"

"Of course, how do you think the copy was made available to you?"

Again their laughter filled the room and Darcy leaned over to place a fond kiss on her mother's damp brow. "Is there anything you don't know about me?"

"No. We are alike, the two of us. I did not give birth to you. You simply stepped out as a near--like version of me. What's your news?"

"It's about a very infamous Frenchman, whose name I would hesitate to mention in mixed company."

"Oh, and who might that be?"

"The Marquis de Sade!" Darcy said, her eyes intent upon her mother's reaction.

"Hand me my robe, luvy, before I become all wrinkled and shriveled from too much soaking. This is a conversation that I hope will not be lengthy, however, I don't want to take any chances."

Reaching for her mother's full white muslin robe, Darcy helped her into it. She watched with admiration as she moved across the bathing room with unaffected grace and simplicity of manner. Veronique turned, taking her daughter amiably by the arm and led her into the companion dressing chamber. Instructing her daughter to take one of the high stools nearby, she sank gently onto the bench in front of her vanity and took the pins from her hair, attempting not to exhibit consternation at the subject posed by her daughter. "Now, _ma cheri,_ before I call for the maid, what about the Marquis de Sade?"

"Cousin Jolie has come upon a copy of one of his novels."

"Come upon? That's a safe way of saying she has either lifted or pinched a copy from some disreputable source. More than likely from her brother, whose own associations are questionable. Have you both managed to read the book?"

"Jolie was afraid to--so I talked her into letting me have it."

"Merde! I hope she will tell no one she gave it to you and you weren't seen carrying a copy. The man is notorious and knowledge of him would do your reputation great harm!"

"No. I don't think anyone could possibly have known I had the book. I hid it in the deep pocket of my redingote." Darcy carefully removed the offensive text from her walking dress and handed it to her mother.

Veronique took the book, glancing hesitantly at its unremarkable cover which simply stated, _Juliette,_ before turning to the frontispiece. The figures descriptively drawn on the page made her wince and she slammed the book quickly shut. "The man has grown worse with age. I thought his sexual perversity could no longer startle me, but I was wrong. It's the instability of the times we live in I'm afraid, Darcy. There are no longer any set rules of proper decorum. Unfortunately, we are often left to the whims of the stronger personalities of the moment. However, the Marquis de Sade shall never be one of them. He is, quite aptly, a product of the violence unleashed by the revolution, which lingers still just beneath the surface of the French people. I sometimes wonder if we will ever overcome our prior savagery."

"Tell me about the marquis, _momi "_ Darcy coaxed, ignoring her mother's stern look of warning.

"I will tell you all you need to know and then you must let the topic be! Promise?"

"I promise," Darcy said eagerly as she arranged her position on the stool to one of greater comfort.

"Comte Donatien-Alphonse-Francois de Sade originally came from a highly placed Provencal family. He even rose to be governor general of Bresse and Bugey. At first he seem destined to a life of the provincial administrator, but beneath this facade he seethed and fermented with strange sexual images and desires. Instead of controlling these impulses against nature, he sought a means of establishing a philosophy that would justify them."

"Is that when he had that scandalous affair with four girls?"

Veronique raised her brows in astonishment. "Yes. He was sentenced to death at Aix-en-Provence for poisoning and sodomy. Unfortunately he escaped from prison, was captured, but escaped again and committed further crimes, then fled to Italy. This was all before the revolution. When he returned to France, he was arrested in Paris and imprisoned in the Bastille."

"How did he survive the revolution? Was he not an aristocrat?"

"I guess he could claim that heritage, though he shamed it badly. He supported the revolution and was made secretary of the Section des Piques. During the bloodiest time, he was arrested for being a returned _emigre,_ but was released within a year."

"Didn't Napoleon imprison him again?" Darcy asked knowledgeably.

"Yes, for this very book you've obtained, and another called _Justine._ He remains in prison as far as I know. The marquis is unrepentant of his perversions."

"Do you know what the books are about, _momi?_ I really wouldn't be so curious about reading them, if you would just tell me." Darcy noticed that her mother had placed the book upside down on her dressing table. The question made her turn completely about, and Darcy found herself under the intense scrutiny of her mother's eyes. She swallowed hard.

"All right, I will attempt to explain to you, however, this must also lead into further discussion on the proper physical relationship between men and women. Understand?"

Darcy nodded, trying not to appear too curious.

"The Marquis de Sade's novels are of sexual experience, both normal and abnormal. He preferred the abnormal and spent what turned out to be considerable literary skill in defending his perversions."

"In what way, _momi_?" Darcy asked in almost a whisper, finding it necessary to swallow away her nervousness again.

Veronique sighed, then smiled fondly at her wide-eyed innocent daughter. "He argued that all sexual desires are natural and can be indulged in with a clear conscience, even to deriving erotic pleasure from the infliction of pain. My opinion is that the man is insane!"

Darcy opened her mouth to ask another question, but quickly closed it upon her mother's firm admonishment, "Now, Darcy, let that be the end of it. You know all that you need to know."

"I'm trying to understand what has happened to our country that causes Napoleon to feel so compelled to correct the existing morality. How did a book like this find entree into our society?"

"During the revolution, Darcy. Much that was good was lost in doing away with that which was oppressive. Robespierre attempted to stop the dissoluteness of public morals, but that ended when he died. What Napoleon is trying to reverse is the reappearance of immorality, which was partially brought about by women of wide sexual experience who suddenly became prominent leaders of fashion and society in France. Seven years ago, church marriages ceased. Only civil marriage was legal and this simply required a mutual pledge signed before a civil authority. Amongst the poor, many people lived together unwed.

Bastards are now aplenty and we have thousands of foundlings. A lot of brides are pregnant even before they choose to marry, if, in fact, they do. Divorce can be easily gotten by anyone."

"You are right. Much has been undone. I see that in your charity work with these poor children." What had at first appeared to be a simple sharing of gossip was developing into a matter of great concern to Darcy. She wrinkled her brow in new consternation.

"You are beginning to grasp your own good fortune, ma cheri." Veronique tone softened toward her conscientious daughter.

"I have seen these children, _momi._ Strangely, the one's that concern me the most are those with parents. You would think they would be better behaved, but often they are even worse than those without any. I can't believe the way they talk to their mothers and fathers."

"It was the encouragement of the revolutionary government for youths to assert their emancipation. Only yesterday the gardener's wife was telling me how afraid she had been to scold her own children. Those who called themselves patriots regarded correcting children against the principles of liberty. She told me that when she had tried to address their faults, they told her to mind her own business. When her husband stepped in, they shouted that they were free and equal, and that the Republic was their only father and no other. Now she knows it will be years before the children of our nation come back to minding their parents. That's why you see the disrespect, Darcy."

"I could never treat you and papa with disrespect. It would just be too awful of me!" Darcy exclaimed softly, coming down from her stool to pick up her mother's hair brush. She began slowly to work out the tangles in the waist length tresses, thinking how it would hurt to quarrel with either of her parents. Her mouth pulled back in a satisfied grin as her mother closed her eyes in pleasure.

But before Veronique completely succumbed to Darcy's sweet careful brushing, she added quietly through her contentment, "People of civilized nations must be alert to the demise of their freedoms when governments legislate their private lives-- especially the children."

"Yes," Darcy added seriously, stopping her swift sure strokes momentarily. "The strength of free people lies in solid families. When families are broken apart, it's easy to fragment the will of the people and bring them into submission."

Veronique partially opened her eyes in order to catch a glimpse in the mirror, not only of her daughter's beauty, but in admiration of the intelligence that lay behind the bright green eyes. Darcy's hair was pulled high with combs, Grecian style, as was the fashion of the day, complimenting the empire gown. The curls dangling down her back were natural for, as Veronique well knew, it was hard for the maid to get Darcy to sit still long enough to train her tresses into the fat round curls that were so fashionable. This hardly mattered for hair that naturally fell into the place most women spent hours trying to accomplish.

She caught her mother's perusal and grinned an infectious smile, making Veronique chuckle with the pleasure they both shared in mutual admiration of one another. "How long do you think it will take papa to find me a new tutor? I really don't want my learning to suffer too long of a delay. There is still so much I want and need to know."

"Your mind is already fit to counsel greatness, ma cheri. What you need is someone to bring you to final polish and confidence. I have already asked your father to hire such a tutor. He must be someone in which you can trust your innermost thoughts and ideas. Someone who will treasure you and your intelligence as much as your father and I do."

"Goodness, _momi,_ it sounds as if you are going to hire a future husband--not a tutor."

Veronique threw back her head and laughed. Reaching out to take the hand holding the brush, she stopped Darcy, looking seriously into her daughter's eyes. "You must marry soon, Darcy. Your father and I do not want Napoleon to choose your husband, so I will admit that we are looking--but not in the direction you would think. Would you trust your father and I to send candidates for your hand in your direction if it was your choice in the end?"

"You know I would, _momi. "_ Darcy touched the tip of her fingers briefly to the cheek of her mother's serious face, then smiled mischievously, raising her dark winged brows, she added pertly, "just as long as the choice is truly mine in the end!"

The door to the dressing room opened noisily, enough so to adequately announce Gautier's entrance into a woman's domain. Both women turned in unison at the sound, their faces expressing delight upon discovering him.

"Darling!"

"Papa! How good of you to come seeking us. We were just talking about the requirements of my new tutor," Darcy exclaimed, coming over to her father and slipping her arm through his, "weren't we, _momi?_

Veronique winked at Gautier.

In keen acknowledgment of their married intimacy, Darcy suddenly decided it was an appropriate time for her to leave. Raising the back of her father's hand to her lips and kissing it lightly, she quickly swept out of her mother's dressing chamber to the hall outside. After only a few paces, she stopped abruptly and sank in bewilderment against a wall. Whatever had possessed her to instigate a conversation about the new tutor between her parents. It was as if she was willingly propelling herself toward some unknown crossroads. Sensing that this was so, yet having no idea of what it all entailed, she pushed away from the wall just as a maid headed toward her mother's suite. Darcy acknowledged her with a brief nod, then hurried on toward her own rooms. Jacque-Rose Recamier was coming for the evening meal.

• • •

Gautier leaned over Veronique, drinking in her essence and kissing the top of her glistening dark hair. As he did so, he picked up the book lying on her vanity. Turning it over in the palm of his hand, he read the title. A brow lifted only slightly at the discovery of its author. Laying the book back down in the space where he had found it, he suddenly reached for his wife, sweeping her into his embrace. She looked silently up into his intense brown eyes, her own sparkling with barely suppressed mirth.

"Have I been boring you, my love, that you should take to reading such diversionary literature?" He quickly followed his query with a long drugging kiss that left Veronique quite breathless.

With her chest still heaving in response, she managed to say through a soft breathy chuckle, "Hardly, as you can visually see, darling."

Still holding her pressed against him, Gautier looked down at her and asked, "Do you think our lovely daughter suspects her parents motives?"

"I think she would not be the bright child that we know, if she did not? The trick will be to arrange the matter so that they both will think that they have discovered one another." Veronique moved gently from his arms and rang for the maid. She quickly found herself entwined once more in a sensual embrace.

"Must you summon your _bonne?_ I have other ideas about what you should be doing right now."

"I know, Gautier, but you have invited an important guest for dinner, remember? I still have much to do in preparation."

Gautier released her with a heavy sigh. "As usual, you are right. I must go to my own bath. However, after Recamier has departed, I will take up where we left off, _mon amour._ You can count on it!" He patted her gently on her derriere, smiling broadly when she flushed in pleasure, and left to seek his man.

Chateau de Touissant fairly glowed with Veronique's _elan vital._ As she moved serenely along the lower floors of the chateau, Darcy joined her at the hearth in the dining room, where her mother was instructing the majordomo as to how she wished the fires to be maintained throughout the evening. There was only to be the four of them at supper, so that Recamier could view Darcy, but after that, three would retire to the salon for discussion. Darcy had been ordered to her suite for the remainder of the evening. She was pleased with the dismissal, but as always, curious about discussions in which she could not partake, especially when she sensed they were about her.

"Everything looks so beautiful. I love it when we have guests for dinner." Darcy followed behind her elegant mother as they went from room to room, instructing which candles should be lit to create just the right ambiance. Each room held huge bouquets of flowers, the scent of which was coaxed out into the air by the warmth of the fire and strategically placed candelabra. Darcy had quickly assured earlier in the evening that a tall vase of white roses had ended up in her own apartment. It was only moments before their guest would be arriving and as they passed through the mirrored entry, both women took a moment to study their appearance. Apparently satisfied, they smiled knowingly at one another and left to find the master of the chateau.

Gautier was just entering the salon as Veronique and Darcy came in through the French doors from the terrace. He was dressed in a dove gray frock coat with a silver silk vest and smooth fitting ankle length breeches, which ended in high polished mid-calf boots, telltale of his military background. Darcy saw her mother light up with pleasure upon seeing him and for a split-second, envied the mutual adoration that passed between their eyes. It was obvious that Veronique's turquoise gown with silver sash had been chosen to complement Gautier's gray ensemble. They looked like a lovely matched set standing together before the marble fireplace. Darcy wished she could capture them exactly as they were in an oil portrait. How she loved and cherished them both. If only she could be as lucky in love, she would consider her life a success!

She had no more than turned to sneak an hors d'oeuvre from a small table when the majordomo stepped into the salon announcing their guest. Quickly placing the pate back on its silver platter, her eyes stayed glued to the double doors for the first glimpse of her father's friend. Darcy's eyes opened wide in astonishment. The gentleman who stepped into the salon had the look of a man ending his forties. _So this is who married the now twenty-two year old Juliette,_ Darcy thought in amazement. _He definitely has the look of a banker! Goodness! She 's only four years older than myself!_

Darcy's green eyes were very round, but she held her face as blank and pristine as a statue. Recamier was shorter and older than her father, but his dignified carriage somehow made him seem almost as tall. His hair was a dried steely silver, adding to his rather stern and somber appearance. _How does Juliette do it,_ Darcy mused, hoping her expression didn't depict surprise. Recamier had suddenly turned and was gazing straight at her as if she was the most important item on a list of assets. She unconsciously sucked in her breath as he made his way across the salon toward her; her parents following close behind.

_This must be how a prize horse feels at auction,_ she thought with rising trepidation. Recamier's sharp banker eyes were missing nothing about her. Quite quickly, he was right there in front of her, extending his hand. She slowly offered her own and felt dry lips lightly pressed just below her knuckles. Dropping a slight curtsy, she said softly, "Welcome to Chateau de Touissant, Monsieur Recamier. I hope you will enjoy a pleasant evening with us."

"Charming! Simply charming, Gautier. She's everything and so much more than you described to me!"

Veronique smiled her approval over the banker's shoulder. She directed a footman to bring the trays of appetizers to the table, then, lightly touching Recamier's elbow, gestured for them all to move to the dining room. Recamier instantly extended his arm to Darcy. As he led her in to supper, she noticed he took great pleasure in her company. Slowly, she began to feel a bit more at ease.

The end of the long highly polished oak table had been set with four place settings of crystal, silver service, and gold trimmed delicate alabaster china. A large revere bowl filled with assorted fruit stood in between two gold candelabra, casting a soft glow over the room in combination with the small bright fire burning in the marble fireplace. The French doors had been thrown open to the terrace outside and a soft evening breeze kept the room at a perfect temperature. The atmosphere was conducive to pleasant conversation and a delightfully planned meal.

"How is your new salon faring in competition with Joseph and Lucien Bonaparte?" Gautier asked in friendly jest.

Recamier's high cheek bones lifted slightly as his face crinkled into a look of amusement. "Since Madame Recamier has become fast friends with Mme. de Stael, we have only the most prominent women, statesmen, and authors attending. You must come visit soon, Veronique. It will make Juliette's list complete."

"How gracious of you, Jacque. I'll look forward to it, the next time we are in Paris."

"Speaking of time, Lucien has lost little of it in declaring his imperishable love to Juliette," Recamier continued, his tone, however, less amused.

"Mm, and what did you advise her to do?" Gautier asked as the footman ladled soup into his bowl.

Recamier sighed, then recounted his advice. "I told her to have patience with him lest the Recamier bank incur the hostility of the Bonapartes." He shrugged in submission, "What else could I do?"

"I shall suggest that Napoleon extinguish Lucien's flame by sending him out of the country on an ambassadorship," Gautier offered kindly.

"I should be most grateful for such a convenient negotiation, Gautier. The farther the better!" Recamier chuckled so infectiously that the entire table laughed in unison with his amused pleasure. When the laughter ended, he turned to Darcy's mother. "Veronique, Juliette and her mother are going to be visiting England soon. What would you think of Mademoiselle Touissant going with them?"

Veronique's eyebrows rose in surprise, then lowered in timely consideration. "Truly, this is something we must discuss." She ran her fingers thoughtfully around the rim of her goblet. "Would you like to spend some time in England, Darcy?"

Darcy was never given the opportunity to answer, for Gautier broke in with, "You know, the timing on a visit to England may be just right. It would give me an excuse to contact some of the French aristocracy there."

"Really, Gautier? To what purpose, may I ask," Recamier inquired, reaching for a slice of bread to break into his soup.

"Napoleon wants to entice them to come back by offering elite positions in his new Legion of Honor. He has unofficially officially assigned me the responsibility."

"Do you think any of them will come, papa?" Darcy asked.

"I certainly wouldn't blame them if they didn't," Recamier added.

"Can you imagine a Frenchman being truly happy living with the British?" Veronique inserted, smiling broadly.

"You have spoken my greatest leverage in this responsibility, Veronique, but it is a slim one that is haunted by horrendous nightmares."

Darcy noted that the table became inordinately silent and she was glad she could not greatly remember the terror. Playing with a piece of meat on her plate, she acutely felt the ominous thoughts of her elders.

Finally Recamier broke the quiet by announcing, "Juliette has received invitations from dignitaries like the Prince of Wales, and famous belles like the Duchess of Devonshire because of her anti-Bonapartist sentiments. The English adore her. Your daughter would have the opportunity to mingle in the company of the isle's greatest. You both should seriously consider the opportunity," he added, while carefully carving himself a choice bite of meat. Then seemingly satisfied with its taste, he chewed, swallowed, and added, "But, you don't have to decide tonight. Even if you wait until the last moment, I'm certain there will always be a place reserved for someone like your daughter."

"I would like to take the time to correspond and make certain Darcy would be equally received, Jacque," Veronique stated seriously.

"See, Gautier! Leave it up to the women and there will be a grand and glorious time had by all! Here's to beauty!" He lifted his glass, automatically drawing high the remaining three for his toast.

• • •

Darcy didn't quite know how it all happened, but the next morning her mother came sweeping into her room, threw open the heavy drapes to let in the brilliant sun, announcing excitedly that in a few months time all would be arranged for her trip to England with Madame Recamier. There was only one dark cloud that she could see on the horizon--she would have to take her new tutor. It would seem, he had been included in the discussions that took place later that evening in the salon without her.

"Mother? The Marquis de Sade's book isn't about our Juliette, is it?"

"Heavens! Do you think your father and I would let you even walk across the street to see Madame Recamier, let alone send you on a voyage to England with her if that were the case!"

"It was just a spur of the moment thought, _momi, "_ Darcy grinned impishly. "When do I meet my new tutor. How old is he?"

Veronique's face lit up with pleasure as she sat down on the edge of the bed. Goose bumps rose on Darcy's arms and traveled up to her neck. Never had she seen her mother so pleased over a tutor. "He is twenty-seven, Darcy. I think you will like Monsieur Hamilton. He is highly educated and not only that, he has great savoir-faire. He will be indispensable to you on the trip."

"Do you like him, _momi_?"

Her mother's face became a masque. "Comme ci, comme ça. That is for you to decide, ma cheri. Now, we've much planning to do."

"But when will I meet Monsieur Hamilton?" Darcy asked, slipping from beneath the sheets to don her robe and slippers.

"On board ship," Veronique offered confidently. "He has promised to send us a list of texts you must read before boarding."

"On board ship, _momi_! But what if I get halfway across the English Channel and I don't like him? What shall I do then? What if I don't even want to board the ship?" Darcy stood clutching the open edges of her robe as if it were a life line.

"Then you may just turn around, ma chere, and come home to me!" Veronique knew just the proper distraction of the moment. She stood and moved to open the door to Darcy's bedchamber, ushering in a group of seamstresses and tailors pushing carts of all colors of fabric, furs, and trays of accessories. A milliner followed closely on their heels with multiple shapes of hats, feathers, ribbons, and jewels. Lastly came a cobbler.

Darcy sat down hard on her bed in sheer female delight, her mouth open in surprise.

"While you are spending your time amidst all this splendor, I shall be right here at your secretary penning letters to people I know in England. You must enjoy your youth and beauty ma chere. There is more than one way to conquer the English!"

# CHAPTER II

Rand stood at the half landing of the grand imperial staircase which hung on three sides of the entrance hall at his English country home on the Avon River. He had changed the name to Hamilton House after the new surname he had chosen for himself on his twenty-first birthday. His sharp gray eyes scanned the manicured parks below through one of the multiple panes of the huge tripartite window. As he gazed out over the estate, one hand was unconsciously tapping a folded parchment against a muscular thigh which had been hardened from the rigors of being an expert horseman. The sky over Hamilton House was filled with white clouds drifting lazily in a sea of brilliant blue. It had rained the day before, refreshing the gardens and making the English hills look greener still. _This royal throne of kings, this secpt 'red isle, this earth of majesty_-- _this England_... he thought with ease while running his long fingers through his short curly black hair. _Perhaps I 've been away from France too long. I'm becoming more of an Englishman than my French ancestors would have liked._

It seemed as if he had lived longer in England than he ever had in France. Though he had been born of the French aristocracy to a grand duke and duchess who had died during the reign of terror, most of his life had been spent in the Isles. The separation had been painful in the beginning, but England had finally become home. Sensing the harsh winds of the revolution, his parents had assured his safety by keeping him there. All that remained of their vast French holdings was an isolated chateau in the Loire Valley. He could barely remember how it looked, for he had spent only a summer there when he was twelve years of age. At the time it had seemed a huge palace with unending grounds. All of it belonged to him now, along with the family holdings in Britain, and so far he had no inclinations of returning to France. Why should he care what happened there anymore? The French people had murdered his parents and most of his relatives. There was really no reason to return except out of some kind of macabre idle curiosity, of which he had none.

He lifted the list he had just composed to the sunlight and read its contents with a smile upon his sensuous lips. Every now and then the muscles in his well chiseled cheek would begin to pull back as if he were about to laugh, the sound from which, in fact, never came. But his gray eyes sparkled with the mischief of the moment. The parchment held a list of books to be read by the demoiselle to which he had been betrothed at the age of 14-- she being only five at the time. The betrothal had long ago lost its legal promise in the upheaval of France, but for some reason her parents now wanted him to take her under his wing for the time being. They had learned he was well-schooled through their mutual acquaintance, Recamier, and since the Touissants had informed Rand they were providing their daughter with an education, they had requested he tutor her during her stay in England. It would seem she had grown bored with her past teacher and needed more to challenge her bright mind. He was sending it.

Chaucer and Shakespeare headed the list that also included, Dante Aligheri, Thomas Hobbs, and John Locke. The list, of course, could not do without Immanuel Kant's _Critique of Practical Reason._ For a touch of the writers of her own country, he had included Francois Rabelais, Pierre Corneille, and Jean Racine. These, plus the others he had written down, should keep her intrigued, and in so doing, provide him with the necessary respect he would demand from her as his student. He had additionally offered his villa on the Isle of Wight at Newport off the English Channel for her use--chaperoned by him, and, of course, a highly selected older female companion. So it looked as though he would be spending the remainder of his summer at Newport.

Turning away from the window, Rand took the remaining flight down the steps to his office in the library. The house had a larger more impressive business office for running the estate, but Rand preferred the warmth and charm of the circular book filled room. Everything was there at his fingertips. In considering the smaller library at his villa, he had decided it would probably serve the demoiselle well to additionally spend some time here at Hamilton House. Pensive, he stared into the flames of the fireplace from his desk in the center of the room. He felt like Henry V before the Battle of Agincourt. _The poor condemned English, like sacrifices, by their watchful fires, sit patiently and only ruminate the mornings danger... Now why had that come to mind,_ he thought with a cynical lift of a black brow. _Perhaps its from some ancient male instinct,_ he decided, picking up his quill and dipping it forcefully into the ink.

_Dear Monsieur Touissant, In accordance with Monsieur Jacque-Rose R ecamier's request, I have chosen to accept the invitation to be your daughter's protector and tutor during her visit to England. I shall consider it an honor and a privilege to see that her stay in the Isles is well chaperoned and educational. I have already sought a respectable mature woman to act as companion for your daughter while under my care. Please be assured that Mademoiselle Touissant will be as safe and as well provided for as if she were in your own household during the length of her stay in England. I am enclosing the list with the books and papers that I promised to recommend for your daughter to begin reading. The books are to be returned to my library when she arrives. I remain honored to be of service to the illustrious general, Gautier Touissant._

_Sincerely, Rand Hamilton,_ he carefully penned, then sanded and sealed the letter. _Why do I still feel as if I have just agreed to more than a tutorship? It 's probably because I was once betrothed to the girl. Let's see, how old would she be now,_ he thought while idly figuring on a scrap of parchment. _Mm, eighteen_ -- _just beginning to blossom as a woman. I wonder why she isn 't married? Maybe she didn't turn out well. It's probably the reason they are educating her_-- _she 's plain with a good mind. Wise, very wise of the Touissants. Gautier will be a good connection in France. I must do all I can to help his poor daughter._ His thoughts were a running commentary as he closed the letter with his family seal, then readied it for the pouch. Ringing for the butler, Rand quickly jotted instructions for the packaging of his books and then reached for the rest of his unopened mail.

Slender feminine fingers extended the first letter on the top of the stack to him, while those on the other hand slipped into the hair just at the base of his white standing collar. Rand's thick black lashes lifted and surveyed her face closely. He knew her wide-eyed innocence was a smoke screen for the reality that was the woman. A grin of amusement crossed over his face. They shared the smile.

"Anora." Rand said her name simply as he pulled her into his lap. "I never know when you'll appear. We're going to have to do something about that in the future." His lips brushed hers as he spoke and adjusted her position on his lap so that the soft contours of her body molded into him.

"You don't like surprises?" she asked in smug delight.

Once again, Rand felt her fingers slip into the thick of his hair as she lifted her rosy mouth to his for the taking. "I thought you'd gone home, chere. I can see that you have not. Still hungry?" he asked, holding his lips inches away, staying within a hair breadth of her own.

Anora moved her lips closer, drizzling each word over his with her warm breath. "I never have enough of you, Rand. What about you? Are you still hungry?"

His gray eyes bored into her blue ones. "One day, Anora, I will ignore the fact that your hair has been carefully coiffed and your gown shows not a wrinkle. Then what will you do? Hide in my house forever? Be careful, chere, when you tickle the lion. A delicate blonde morsel like you cannot hide the fact that a man has placed his mark upon you. Every rosy blushing part of you will tell the tale. Your aunt will lock you away forever."

Anora leapt off his lap in alarm. "Rand! You wouldn't."

He stood abruptly. "Wouldn't I?" His gray eyes flashed her a friendly warning, just as the butler entered the library. "Gilbert, you'll show Lady Anora to her carriage, please."

"When will I see you again, Lord Hamilton?" Anora asked, looking somewhat nonplused al having to voice her appeal in front of the butler.

"Sooner than you think if you don't leave, chere!" Rand said matter-of-factly causing Anora to flush. "Next time, I'll send for you. It's better for you that way, you know."

Her eyebrows rose in amazement under her discomfiture, but with the cold austere presence of Rand's butler immediately to her left, Anora had no choice but to leave gracefully. If she didn't crave being in Rand's bed so much, she'd enjoy seeing his head guillotined and skewered!

• • •

Rand had accomplished what he could for the throngs of French noble exiles in London who had congregated in Kensington, Twikenham and Richmond. Though these aristocrats did their best to keep their spirits up, most of them did little to conceal the fact that they were disenchanted with England. He had taught off and on for several years at Kensington House, the school for the children of these French emigres. He was only visiting London now to tell the headmaster that he would not be available for the remainder of the year, having taken up the duties of tutoring a private student.

Kensington House once was a large old manor. It had a kind of decaying splendor that appealed to Rand's love of history. As he approached the building on this particular day he saw a group of boys playing swing-swang near a beautiful walk of trees running down from the rear of the school through the playground. Coming closer, the familiar sound of little French emigrants filled his ears, all screaming, laughing, and shouting in the familiar rapid and joyous language of France. He heard no English. It was the one place he felt suddenly transferred to a Parisian university. The school was filled with the children of French planters sent to England to learn English alongside the refugees from the Revolution. Usually the children of the French exiles mingled easily with the Creoles, even though there were substantial points of difference among them. The French West Indians were rich _roturiers_ of mixed decent, while the emigrants were of aristocratic blood without a coin in their pockets. However, they all hated England and that reconciled their differences.

Upon entering the school, Rand went immediately to the familiar chamber of the head master, the walls of which were covered with fading gilded tapestries. The head of Kensington House was a French nobleman by the name of Monsieur le Prince de Broglie. Broglie was a tall slender older man with a delicate appearance that belied a steel resolve to see that his pupils did not lose their heritage. When Rand had first met him, he had found Broglie abrasive and inflexible. But the longer he worked with the head master, the more he came to respect the principles he upheld. Broglie attempted to pass these values onto his unusual flock of the progeny of the wealthy and misplaced French aristocracy.

Rand took a seat next to a Venetian window in one of two dormers that overlooked the playground in the head master's chamber. He stretched out his long knee-high boots and lowered his chin even deeper into his neckwear. He had, to a certain extent, and without trying, the wind-swept look of the _Incroyables,_ who carried heavy knotted walking sticks, encouraged unruly hair, and hid their jaws in very high enormous neck-cloths. Rand had not taken the look that far, but his tight leather riding breeches and black curly hair complemented the idea. It mattered not. Today he did feel radical. He tossed his fantail hat into the chair next to him and closed his eyes. It was only moments later when he heard the familiar child intimidating walk of Broglie, followed by the quick steps of his assistant. However, it was only Broglie who came into the chamber. Rand looked up in greeting.

Broglie had the pale almost translucent skin on the face of the elderly, but there was not a sign of red in it. He was clean shaven except for a thin white mustache over even thinner lips. His nose had a pronounced downward bend from the bridge and extended between two black eyes set so deeply into his skull that he appeared to be looking out of a dark room. His white hair hung straight just above his shoulders. His artistic hands extended long and thin from a close fitting black frock coat that must have dated back twenty years. Rand started to stand, but Broglie waved him back into his chair.

"I've had the most amazing morning! It's been one crazy stunt after another. I'm having a great deal of trouble getting the children back to normal," Broglie declared, entering the room as if for the first time and searching it to get his bearings.

"Another Bonaparte victory?" Rand asked, watching Broglie as he finally determined the position of the silver service and began to prepare tea for them both.

"Heavens, I wish it were that simple. Let's see, is it a touch of cream and two lumps of sugar?"

Rand nodded.

"No, nothing as simple as a Bonaparte victory, Monsieur Hamilton. The future King of France paid us a visit with a large retinue of French nobility. I quickly had to assemble the whole student body to receive him."

"Where did you greet him?" Rand questioned curiously, taking his cup of tea from Broglie.

"We gathered in a circle at the bottom of the stone stairs leading to the playground. No sooner had we done so, than His Majesty appeared with his _cortege_ at the glass folding doors at the top of the stairs. The moment the children saw him they all shouted 'Vive le Roi!' It hasn't stopped since his visit!"

Rand noticed the deep set black eyes were exceptionally shiny and realized Broglie seemed greatly touched by this spectacle.

"Do you know, Monsieur Hamilton, that the king went down amongst the little boys and completely awed them. Charles asked the names of those that stood around him. When he recognized any that were descendants of some of the noblest families in France, he was highly affected by it. He even said to a couple of them, "Helas! mon enfant!' and caressed the ones who were children of his friends who had perished on the scaffolds." Broglie sat down with a sigh. "Today, however, there is no containing them. I'm exhausted with the effort of trying to divert their over stimulated and excessive energy!"

"I can well imagine. I saw a small sample of that energy as I came up the walk." Rand attempted to drink his tea. It was not his favorite beverage, so he took a large swallow that almost emptied his cup and set it down on a small table next to him.

"Why have you come, Monsieur Hamilton? I have not as yet arranged your teaching schedule."

"It's just as well, Monsieur Broglie, I will not be teaching here for awhile. I've taken on a private student of a rather influential French general."

"I am sorry to hear that, Monsieur Hamilton, but I'm not surprised, for I sent letters of recommendation to Jacque-Rose Recamier when he inquired after your whereabouts.

"Amazing!" Rand uttered in surprise.

Broglie chuckled. "Yes, we are a small community here in England, but we have never lost touch with the continent."

"Well, then tell me, Monsieur, what do you know of Touissant's daughter?"

"Not a thing. She appears to be one of the best kept secrets in France. I have a feeling it's intentional."

"Why so?" Rand asked offhandedly.

"Could be for many reasons, my son. The Bonapartes are notorious womanizers and my guess would be to protect a demoiselle from that powerful appetite. It would certainly be my choice if I had a young daughter."

"Perhaps you're right," Rand remarked, standing and stretching as he did so. He looked out onto the now empty playground and wondered idly where all the little brats had gone. _Well,_ he thought, _no matter how Touissant 's daughter turned out, his time with her would not be wasted. A bright mind was much more to his liking than a beautiful vessel without one._ Anora came immediately to mind.

"I hope while you have the young woman under your influence you will help her to understand the meaning of a true aristocrat and why all societies that deny this kind of influence in their midst, perish into dark obscurity."

Rand was uncomfortably aware of a sudden austere scrutiny and quickly felt restless. He had recently become interested in the writings of the second president of the new fledgling nation, the United States, and was not certain that Brogue's idea of an aristocrat and the seeds of his new thinking on the idea matched. But this was not a discussion he wished to address at the moment to the head master, so instead, he picked up his hat, indicative of his leaving.

"I have touched on a nerve, Monsieur Hamilton?" Broglie asked with a keenly observing eye.

Rand sank his hat firmly on his head. He hesitated only briefly, measuring Broglie for a short moment before answering. "The Revolution has hit on a number of my nerves, Monsieur Broglie. Rethinking the aristocracy is only one part of it. But, we will speak of this another time. Right now I've much to do to prepare my villa for Mademoiselle Touissant's arrival. I bid you a good day--and much luck controlling the children." He turned his broad shoulders and headed toward the door.

"You will keep in touch, Monsieur Hamilton?"

Turning back, Rand smiled with assurance at the older man. "Of course."

• • •

By the time Rand had reached Southampton, he was tired from traveling in the saddle and glad to see his Irish-Hunter, Riagan, led up the gangplank and placed securely aboard his ship, the _Venteux._ Upon taking a few moments to give instructions to his crew about their morning departure for the Isle of Wight, he headed directly for the captain's cabin and the customized full size bed in his quarters.

The next morning found him casually dressed in tight black breeches, half-boots, and a white shirt opened to the waist. The soft muslin bagpipe sleeves of that shirt filled with a gentle sea breeze as he reached to check a rope on one of the carronades. Placing his foot momentarily on a nearby barrel, he looked down the channel and out in the direction of the sea while at the same time banding his hair with a strip of leather. His attention was suddenly drawn landside to the sounds of a group of horsemen riding in great raucous merriment toward the _Venteux._ Rand's dark brows gathered in concern. But, as the riders came into view his mouth drew back into a wide grin of recognition.

"Ho there, my Lord Hamilton!" came the greeting from the first rider to reach the vicinity of the ship's berth. The man had removed his hat and was waving it enthusiastically over a fiery head of red hair.

Rand recognized him immediately as he traversed the deck to the opposite side. He hadn't seen the wiry little Irishman since the French had attempted to invade their island. Leaning over the hammock netting he shouted a greeting of recognition. "Anlon Cori! What brings you to England?"

"I came to get me pay, laddie, before your luny king gets put away again. A year and a half it's been. I think I've waited long enough!"

"Did you get it then?" Rand laughed.

"Why, now, do you think me and the boys have been followin' ye all over England tryin' to catch up? I owe you a few hundred meals and more drinks than I can remember. If, in good fortune, I can just talk ye off that floatin' palace called a ship, I'd like to see ye pleasantly drunk before the sun sets over Ireland." Anlon grinned wickedly with thoughts of the planned debauchery, raising his brows repeatedly up and down over his wild blue Irish eyes.

Throwing back his head, Rand laughed in anticipation. "Why not? I'll be with you in a minute."

"Better make it in less time than that, laddie. I rode all night to get here. I want you bleary-eyed and stupid before I fall asleep."

Lifting his right thumb to the sky, Rand disappeared to get his gear. Moments later he came striding down the gangplank. "I've already boarded Riagan--mind if I ride with you?"

Anlon stretched out a callused hand, hoisting Rand up in back of him. "Now I have you where I want ye, me boyo," he bellowed over his shoulder while encouraging his mount into a gallop. "I hear tell there's a prize-fight to be had in these parts. Seems it was started by some crazy Irishman. Now I wonder who that can be?" he roared over the din of the many riders.

Rand shook his head knowingly and hung on.

Anlon was as good as his word. The arranged fight was one of the Irish rogue's opportunities to cheat as many fools as possible out of their money. He had begun the event's tidings by circulating a small paragraph in one of the local papers that there were two rivals in training, taking their exercise, so to speak, locally, while being fed a diet of raw beef. Meantime, he'd made certain that the amateurs and gamblers chose their party and that the state of the bets also appeared in the newspapers. It was one of his more finely well turned schemes. Rand even made a little money, which he immediately spent buying everyone a round of drinks. Somehow after a huge meal and much toasting their good fortune, they ended up in the back of a seedy little inn watching a cockfight. It was about eleven o'clock at night when the two finally succumbed to lack of sleep and too much pleasure. A coffeehouse had been the final stop finding both men sitting bravely in the back booth leaning against the wall for support. The others had long ago sought their beds.

Lifting his wobbly head, Anlon attempted to focus in on Rand. "Why is it, laddie, you can sit there looking fit as a fiddle, while I feel like hell?"

"I had a good night's sleep. You didn't," Rand stated simply.

"Yes, my friend, that could be part of the reason, but I'd bet the king's wages you'd still be in fine fiddle even if you'd ridden all night. It's just the nature of the beast. Some people go through life wrinkled--some go through life pressed."

"I think your judgement's somewhat cloudy, Cori. Remember the Prince of Wales' little bash?" Rand reminded him, yawning and stretching out his long legs beneath the table.

Rolling his eyes around in his head Anlon attempted to search his memory for the answer, then raised his eyes heavenward in remembrance. Suddenly he began to laugh. "Ah yes, the waltz! One should never waltz when under the influence of spirits. I seem ta remember tellin' you so when Mrs. Fitzherbert insisted ye teach her."

"Yes. As I accepted the challenge I recall hearing some rather stately gentleman say, I am pestered every ball night to waltz, which I modestly refuse," Rand related in mimicry of polished high English. "The waltz is a most infamous dance. The male and his partner embrace each other, arms and waists, and, egad, knees almost touching, and if that weren't scandalous enough, then whirl round-and-round to highly lascivious music!"

"It was the whirling round-and-round part that should have given you fair warning," Anlon prodded with twinkling eyes, "but no, not you! Off ye went round-and-round with the wife of the Prince of Wales thinking she was safely in tow."

"Well--she was--for awhile," Rand grinned in amused remembrance.

"Terrible thing, the dais, laddie. Even though it's tucked away at the end of the ballroom. Such a hazard, not to mention the potted shrubs at both ends! Now what murderous swine thought to put those there!" Anlon emitted a mirth filled gurgle over his cup. "I'll never forget the look on the Prince's face!"

"Okay, Cori, enough at my expense. There's a pretty little barmaid over there giving you the eye. Want me to go get her for you?" Rand attempted to stand, but then thought better of it.

"Not me, laddie. Nothin' will be standin' up straight tonight." Cori rubbed his face. "She looks good from here, but me eyes aren't well focused." Chuckling, he nudged Rand with a meaty shoulder, "but then, sometimes it's not always good to see, if you get my meaning. I can honestly tell you, many's the mornin' I've woken slappin' a hand over me mouth to keep from screamin'."

"As your friend then, I'd advise you to keep your seat," Rand offered amiably, finally managing to stand. "As for me, I'm going to find a nice soft place--correction--pillow on which to lay my head. Goodnight, Anlon. It's been an experience as usual."

"Glad as always to muss ye up a little, Lord Hamilton. If you're lucky, I may see you before ye set sail." Laying his head down on the table, he muttered, "but then again, maybe not."

• • •

The early morning sunlight had just begun to filter in through the ship's captain windows when Rand heard a knock on the oak door. Rolling over onto his back he blinked several times, uncertain of the sound. The taste in his mouth immediately told him of the past day's events. _Ugh! Why do I let the man talk me into his deviltry,_ he thought. The rap on the door came again, this time persistent and louder.

"Alright, I'm coming. Give a man a chance to wake up will you." His eyes were open wide now, and surprising himself, he swung with his usual athletic grace from the bed. Throwing his shirt on over his head, he opened the door to find Anlon.

"Haw! Didn't think I'd make it did ye laddie!" Anlon said, bringing a full body of zest with him as he entered the cabin.

"I thought you'd be sleeping it off, Cori. Why are you up so early?" Rand asked trying to find his breeches.

"Well, we were foolin' around so much yesterday, that I didn't have a chance to talk seriously with ye," Anlon said as he walked over to the window, looking out over the waters of the inlet.

"What's up? You're not going to get married on me are you?" Rand asked, seating himself on the edge of the bed and pulling on one of his boots.

"No. I'm still managin' to put that arrangement off a while longer, though me pa wishes I'd settle for the colleen. She's gettin' a wee impatient too, but I figure she'll wait for the future chief-of--the-clan," Anlon sighed and swung around from the window. "What troubles me is England's mess with France, and your king, who seems to turn into a dolt at the drop of a hat."

"Don't worry. George is not in charge when he's like that. Fortunately for England, we are not entirely ruled by the King. Parliament stands us in good stead in these instances."

"That's another question I always wanted to ask ye. Where do you stand, laddie, in all of this? Is your French blood across the Channel or your English here."

"I'm afraid I'm more English than I was supposed to be, Anlon." Rand shoved his foot into his second boot and slammed it emphatically on the floor. "All I'm interested in is making certain Napoleon doesn't change that for me!"

"Which brings me to another point with ye," Anlon said, settling himself in the captain's chair. "Are you going to be usin' this ship to go after French merchants?"

"The ship's always battle ready out of sheer necessity, and yes, if they bother me, I'll bother them!" Rand leaned his elbows on his knees and looked intently at Anlon. "This wouldn't have to do with French cognac and wine, would it?"

"We Irish do have our cravings. Me pa and the clan have some investments tied up in that." Anlon's face clouded and his eyebrows knit closely together. "I would hate to see ye sink me profits."

Rand stood, placing his hands easily on slim hips. "Like I said, Cori, I only retaliate when provoked. Rest assured if that's not the case, I won't be sinking any merchant ships."

Anlon stood also, a wide grin of satisfaction on his face. "My thanks to ye, Lord Hamilton." He stretched out his hand and Rand took it after a moments pause. "Well, now, I best be goin' before I wear out the welcome. Good seeing you, Rand. Until we tip goblets again!"

Hamilton's gray eyes twinkled as he shook Cori's hand, "Stay clear of the _grenouilles,_ my friend, and keep your powder dry."

"And remember, laddie,"Anlon tossed in raucously, swinging his arm about Rand's shoulders, "have your women only the Irish way!"

Rand walked the Irishman up on deck, staying until Anlon rode out of sight. It occurred to him that the only way he could truly be trusted by Cori was to be a true Irishman himself. _In many ways,_ Rand thought, _Fm like a man without a country._ He would have to do something about that. Pushing away from the railing and turning his back land-side, he spread his booted feet wide on the deck and took in a deep breath of salt air. Sweeping the inlet channel ahead with his glass, he signaled for his men to set sail.

To set up your completion of this Historical Journey push this Authors link or search for Vernanne Bryan online:  
Sublime Intervention

# TANGLED IN HIS GLORY

## Based on the Life of Laura Keene

### Vernanne Bryan

# PASSPORT

**_Dedicated to:_**  
**_Your_**  
**_Historical Adventure_**

**_Your Travel Visa_**  
**_" Tangled in His Glory"_**
He was silver and she was gold,

two luminescent souls in an austere world.

Each alone until they found one another,

they vowed to cherish, to have, and to hold.

And when they made that solemn pledge,

he swept her up in veil and gown,

holding her close under the moon in the saddle,

taking her to a cottage at the ebony sea edge.

There he loved her into a blissful slumber,

gently soothing away doubts and fears.

She returned his love without shadows,

knowing her freedom he would never encumber.

At dawn he looked into the sweetness of the ages,

for upon his bed lay a celestial vision.

Their night together had taught him beauty,

unaware she would be imprisoned in history's pages.

He was silver knight and she was golden spangled,

two souls overshadowed by an act of hate.

Their brilliance forgotten in that one heinous act.

Laurels lost, but love eternal,

in His glory they became tangled.

# PROLOGUE

London, April 1851. In wretched fear she turned down the dark narrow alley, taking only a few uselessly well-placed steps before being suffocated with the noxious odors assailing her nostrils, forcing the bile in her stomach to rise. Her hand flew up to her mouth, shocking her lips with the feel of jagged callouses and broken nails. A rowdy group of infantile scavengers shoved roughly by, knocking her momentarily off balance, forcing her to protect her swollen belly. One of her worn shoes was forced into the soapy slime of the unpaved muddy alley in order to right herself. Before she could move further, something cold and dirty hit the side of her neck, oozing down between her breasts. Then came another drop and then another. Glancing up, she discovered the source that blocked the sun and any possibility of pure air. Someone had made an attempt at laundering, stretching their worn clothes to dry on poles across the narrow passageway.

Hastening back out into the street of miserable houses and broken windows patched with paper and rags, she was all too aware of the crowding. The houses, she knew for a fact, were let out to more than one family, had manufacturers in the cellars, vendors in the parlors, shoemakers in the back, and over the squalid cluster of families in the center, she realizes, someone is probably starving in the attic. Eyes lowered, she tried to remain sightless to the gutter where hungry children were at play. They were playing in the filth, the incredible filth that was everywhere. Some of them had no clothes and ran naked in total degradation.

It was not too dark on the street. A little sun passes through. It is then she sees them, girls of fourteen, maybe fifteen, wearing white great-coats, their long matted hair lying in tangles down their backs. Some are barefoot and beneath those shabby coats are either nothing or every kind of imaginable ragged apparel. Stepping hastily into a patch of sunlight, she marvels at the way it feels on her upturned face, bright and fresh; she is glad she is not one of them.

Then it begins, the squabbling, fighting, and swearing that goes with drinking and whoring. Again she is filled with unbearable primitive fear. Shrinking out of the light while pulling the torn garments around her body, she turned to re-enter the alley. At that moment a hard hand grasped her wrist painfully and fetid breath was felt on her cheek. Looking down at the huge hand on her waist, her mouth dropped open in despair. She too was wearing a white great-coat. Frantically she assured herself the man would not force a woman with child.

Slipping her body into a recessed entry and pressing it against a rough oak door, she attempted in vain to prevent his advances, but her struggle did not keep his hands from her most intimate parts. Air now was barely flowing from her constricted chest as he forced his great weight upon her. But the rotten door had no fastening and with the splintering of wood, she began the long fall backward, down into the dank cellar. Head flung far back, the scream died in her throat.

Mary Frances' eyes flew open. Her long auburn hair had come loose from its braid. Her head, pulled back at an odd angle under the weight of her body made breathing difficult. Afraid to move, she lay quietly among the clean linens of her own bed in the room above her husband's tavern trying to sort through the insistent trepidations of her emotions. Still the reality of the nightmare hung about her like a black shroud and there was something else on which she couldn't put her finger. Something that didn't seem quite right, even though she now knew she was in fact safe in her own bed. This, she chided herself, is the room I have shared with my husband for the last seven years. What could possibly be wrong? All of her instincts told her that something was severely amiss.

Then it came, at first like a tiny scratching at the front tavern door. She listened for the out-of-place sound again. A chair scraped across the downstairs floor and she bolted upright. Once again she heard the noise outside! Grasping her robe at the foot of the bed and wrapping it quickly around her, she found no time to search for her slippers as a loud pounding came from below. Only one thought carried her swiftly down the small passageway to the bedroom of her tiny daughters; she would never allow any harm to come to them. By the time she reached their room, the pounding on the tavern door was deafening and Emma and Clara were clinging to each other wide-eyed with fright in the middle of their bed.

"Come, luvs, to your mum," Mary Frances spoke as calmly as she could muster. She quickly gathered her small daughters into her arms. Heaven only knew what kind of business had taken their father away again. Whatever it was, it was keeping him out more frequently and long hours after she had closed the tavern for the night.

The three of them sat huddled in the middle of the bedcovers, listening to the strange noises that kept coming from below. Then the tavern door finally came crashing down. Quickly, Mary Frances drew the children from the bed and hurried them to the back of a long closet running full length alongside the eves beneath the roof, telling them with feigned excitement that they were playing a new game and they had to stay put without making a sound. Breathing a prayer, because she wasn't sure she could depend on the six-year-old Emma to keep her baby sister quiet, she smiled confidently at them both, then kissed their sweet faces. Cursing the look of concern in their young eyes, she turned to go, closing the closet door with an index finger to her lips, just as she heard Clara whimper.

It was too late now to turn back to the children. The commotion downstairs was becoming louder, especially upon opening the door to the stairwell. She next heard a deep authoritarian voice command her husband by name, "Henry Taylor! In the name of the Queen, you are under arrest. Lay down your arms!"

A pain of betrayal so severe it took her breath away seized her upon hearing that awful demand and she stood frozen, leaning against the wall before the turn of the second landing. Her breath was coming too short, just as it had in her dream. Beads of perspiration formed above her lips. She felt as if she might lose consciousness. But somehow she had to manage to take those final steps in order to have a clearer view of what was taking place below. Drawing on all her courage, she stepped out onto the landing rising above the now well-lit tavern. As she did, an officer of the Metropolitan Police spun around, pointing her husband's loaded weapon directly at her heart.

"Declare yourself, madam!" he growled.

Mary Frances was so shocked at the condition of Henry that she was unable to comply with the officers demands. Henry was barely standing surrounded by big burly Bow Street runners who had apparently enjoyed apprehending him, for his once handsome face was now seriously pummeled black and blue. None of them appeared to be carrying any weapons, but each held a short heavy staff at the ready. Her husband had foolishly resisted. More scared than in his defense, she raised her petite frame as high as possible and bravely demanded, "What is the meaning of this? My husband is the honest proprietor of this establishment. You've made some mistake!"

A policeman, previously out of the range of her vision and obviously in command, stepped from around the corner to stand at the foot of the stairs, booted feet spread in broad objection. "And who might you be, madam?" he asked in quiet, but deadly assertion.

"I'm Mrs. Henry Taylor and you, sir, are making a grave error here." Mary Frances found herself looking into grim _eyes_ set deep above a prominent nose and well-trimmed mustache.

"I think not." He turned on his heel, dismissing her.

She started down the stairs, but realized she was in her bare feet. Therefore, she stood her ground as best she could, asking in a voice that barely suppressed her fear and anger, "What are you arresting him for, sir?"

He turned threateningly about, placing one foot forward as if to ascend the staircase. She stepped back, her hand automatically rising to her throat. Something about that feminine gesture made him pause. He stood studying her for some length, then snapped, "A crime so heinous, madam, that you would be wise never to question the need for his immediate removal from your life. I understand you have two small daughters?"

She nodded, unable to take her eyes from his furious face.

"May I say, it is a blessing for them that we take such carrion away from their pure innocence this night."

Mary Frances sunk to the steps in shock. "You'll not tell me what he's done?"

The officer shook his head and said, "I only hope to God, you're spared the truth, madam. Now, men, get him the hell out of here!"

She watched in stunned silence as they took her husband away. Henry never looked back.

She sat crumpled on the steps long after the police had gone, staring at the broken door, her honey brown eyes filled with bewilderment and grief. What was to become of her, a woman alone with two small children and their father's reputation seemingly in terrible ruin. How could this be happening? Was God punishing her for marrying a man she'd never loved?

What other choice had there been with her father and brothers all dead? Her mother was a gentlewoman, always loved and provided for by her father. Henry had promised--promises, promises, they'd all been lies--except he _had been_ the godson of the great Duke of Wellington. Where had that gotten them? Nowhere! Wait a minute, her mind raced ahead, the cash box still stands full of the night's deposits beneath the bar. With these they'd be able to get along! She could run the tavern by herself. She ran it anyway! Maybe she could get Henry a good barrister. Perhaps he'd prove it was all some horrible mistake!

Mary Frances rose slowly on shaky legs. Starting down the stairs, she barely felt the coldness of the floor until she heard Emma cry out, "Mama, Clara's going to fall!" Jerking around, her heart went up in her throat as she tore back up the steps. Rounding the corner of the second landing, she could see Clara toddling on little chubby legs to the top of the stairwell. Discovering her mother, she waved her tiny hands over her head and stepped out into thin air.

"Clara!" Mary Frances yelled, catching her just in time, "Mummy's got you!"

Clara giggled as she was tightly hugged.

"Thank you, Emma," she said to the solemn child standing in serious concern at the top of the steps.

"Where's papa, mama?" the petite girl asked soberly.

"He had to go away, darling."

Emma screwed up her little face and tears pooled in her huge eyes. Mary Frances drew her immediately into the folds of her robe. "It's okay, muffet. We'll straighten out everything in the morning. Come. Let's all go to bed in Mummy's room."

"Oh _yes,_ mama, yes!" Emma chirped, brightening instantly. She danced knowingly ahead on wee slippered feet to her mother's room, clapping her hands in childish delight. Clara, too, tried to clap her baby hands in mimic as Mary Frances closed and bolted the stairwell door.

Watching the curls bob on Emma's head as she bounced down the hall, Mary Frances was reminded of the sweetness of her own childhood. A wave of longing swept through her. It hadn't been such a great time ago she had lived in her father's big house on Prince Street. Then it was all gone before she could even grasp the concept of adulthood and the responsibility it brought with it. But she'd managed to keep her mother and herself off the street. She'd done it honestly too. Well, perhaps it hadn't been honest to marry Henry, she thought remorsefully, tucking Clara in beside her sister. How sweet they both looked lying there together. Slipping in beside them, she suddenly felt the need to keep them both close to her. Such little mites they were and so very dependent. Well, she wouldn't let them down, even if she couldn't see her way clear at the moment.

These awful compelling feelings had been exactly the same when word came that Tommy was lost at sea. She'd never forget the look on her mother's grief-stricken face. Papa, Edward, Thomas, all gone in just a few years. She felt her own eyes mist up, then swallowed it back hard so as not to upset her little girls.

It had been ridiculously hard for her to find employment, especially under the new republicanism. Those silly men who thought up all those impossible rules didn't ever consider the women who were unfortunate enough not to have fathers or spouses, she recalled with frustration. It had been so difficult to find respectable work outside the home. By all that was holy, what was a woman supposed to do? What was she to do now? What would her daughters do?

She looked down at Emma and watched her little eyelids begin to droop in exhaustion. Running her fingertips lovingly over her small forehead, she noticed in satisfaction that her daughter sighed gently in contentment. But, she began to fret again, what if Henry never gets out of trouble? How will I keep you both safe? She lay discontentedly back among the pillows, cradling the now sleeping Clara in the crook of her arm. Why couldn't life stay the same? Oh, papa, how I wish you hadn't left us! Perhaps, she mused wistfully, if I lay very still and close my eyes for only a moment I can be there again. Just for a minute or two, she considered wearily, and then I'll think about what to do.

How easily the good memories came rushing back. Her parent's large four poster where she had been born. The huge master bedroom for all its grand size was a warm cozy room with a cheery fireplace. It was there she and her older sister and brothers would sit before the fire drinking hot chocolate and eating freshly baked cookies while their father read to them and their mother engaged in her intricate needlework. What wonderful and lively family discussions they used to have together, especially the more intellectual conversations as her siblings grew older.

Hannah, dear Hannah. She had been a good elder sister who had helped with lessons in rules of deportment; rules that all young ladies of refinement had to learn. It was Hannah, along with her mother, who had encouraged her with dance, piano, and voice lessons provided at a time when she would much rather have been climbing the orchard trees or feeding the goslings. Sweet Hannah, who had made dreary lessons so much fun, now married with a home of her own to manage.

She and her sister had been unusually educated for women and at the same time raised to be ladies of substantial households. Hannah had just been on the threshold of all the exciting society events. Neither one of them ever got to enjoy the height of the season that occurred sometime after the opening of Parliament. It was when rooms and levees at St. James Palace were filled to bursting. People went to the opera or the theatre because they were just as interested in one another as they were in the performance. But it was after Parliament closed that the real season would begin. Mary Frances smiled softly in relish of the remembered sights and festivities. How she had dreamed of being able to witness the Royal Academy of Art's annual exhibition or attending the round of private balls and dances that took place upon coming-of-age. The chance for the latter had died with her father and brothers.

Why couldn't those who made the social rules see how impossible they'd made the lives of the women who were without the benefit of men? Oh, never mind, she thought in futility, it was the way it was. But, she would somehow keep her reoccurring nightmare just what it was--a bad dream! Prostitution would never be a consideration. She still had the tavern. Maybe she could even earn extra money as a retoucher of old masters as she had done for the St. James gallery. Hadn't her uncle said she had a discerning eye and a delicate touch?

Her mind drifted back to her uncle's art studio in the wonderfully cultural neighborhood of St. James Palace and to the theatre that was there. Just the thought of those days in his studio brought moisture into her eyes. It was at the gallery she had discovered and found the paintings of J.M.W. Turner so thrilling. It was his preoccupation with air, light, and golden mists that had enchanted her so. It was while working at the gallery she had discovered the exciting St. James theatre. She'd never forget the evening she'd left the gallery and had been brave enough to walk by that theatre. Such bravery had led her to discover the incredible voice of Rachel the French tragedienne. She believed she'd always be able to call forth the sound of that wonderful rich voice all the rest of her life for it had been locked into her memory. At the time, she had been very aware that the theatre was strictly off limits for young ladies, but she had not been afraid to share the excitement of the discovery with her family. Luckily, not one of them had rebuffed her curiosity. Then they all had been so wonderfully close and dear to one another. How she missed them. Suppressing a sigh, Mary Frances drew Clara and Emma even closer.

She wished she had one of Mr. Turner's paintings. To be able to gaze at it would take her far away to that world of endless fantasy the man was so capable of creating. But how foolishly out of place it would look in the tavern. I want my father's world back, she thought fiercely! I want that same world for those I love! Clara whimpered softly and Mary Frances realized her hold on the baby had tightened.

"Shush, littlest lamb. Mummy's sorry," she offered the sleeping child, gently pulling her arm out from under Clara's head, then tucking her softly between herself and her sister.

The maternal distraction did not halt the progress of her troubled mind. Her own mother had not raised her to be a helplessly caged bird. Being female in the Moss household meant something. She'd spent too many endless hours in the library studying and listening to her mother's wise tutelage to be the kind of useless flower that whimpered and quit. No, her mother's guidance and love had empowered her to be so much more. Somehow she would manage to bring about the necessary change with or without Henry. More than likely from the looks of things, she fretted uneasily, it would be without him. What on earth could he have done that was so terrible?

Pondering the nature of Henry's misfortune made her feel sick and restless. In a few more hours the sun would be up and the servants would arrive. She would have to begin her day. One of the first things she would do is hire a carpenter to fix the tavern door, she thought half awake, half in sleep. Maybe running a tavern wasn't ladies' work, but it was an honest living. She struggled sleepily to locate a comfortable position without disturbing the children. The door! Oh, good lord, she'd forgotten the door! In panic her muscles tensed and she half bolted from the bed. Anyone could just walk in and help themselves to whatever they wanted. That would bloody-well never do! She lowered her feet quickly to the floor.

Sneaking quietly out of bed, she fumbled about until she found her slippers. Wrapping herself in her robe, she hurried down the hall to unbolt the stairwell door to the tavern below. Her heart quickened in the urgent need to see that the cash box was still in its place. Without turning on a lamp, she felt beneath the bar, slid open the hidden panel, and sighed in relief as her fingers reassuringly touched the cool exterior of the metal box. Thank God, she rejoiced, it was there! Pulling the box out, she quickly flipped open the lid. To her dismay her fingers found it was empty. Empty! How could it be, she panicked. She'd always left it there for Henry to count. No one else knew where Henry!! Oh my

God, he took all our money! As the realization sunk in, the magnitude of what it would mean hit her hard. Oh no, she thought desperately, now what! The marketing had been planned for the morning hours. They were very low on supplies for the tavern, especially food. I will not cry, she swore to herself. If I do I shall never stop.

• • •

In the ground floor living room adjoining the spirit booth, Mary Frances stood idly twisting an auburn lock as she looked out the large bay window at the shoppers hurrying by on Oxford Street. It was evening and the street lamps were lit. Alma, one of their three servants, was tending her small daughters. She glanced over at them absentmindedly, then turned back to view the street.

It took one half of an hour to cover Oxford from end-to-end. Evening was one of Mary Frances' favorite times, for then she too loved to stroll down the avenue with its double rows of brightly shining lamps. It was an opportunity to wear a special dress too good for the tavern. Always in the middle of the byway would be a long row of brightly lacquered coaches belonging to London socialites. Oxford thoroughfare was so wide that even with the conveyances lined in the middle, two coaches could pass one another. The pavement was inlaid with flagstones and could stand at least six people deep allowing customers to gaze at the highly illumined shop fronts without feeling pushed or crowded. For a petite woman, this was a definite asset. If it was her lot to be a tavern-keeper's wife, Mary Frances was satisfied to be on fashionable Oxford Street.

Londoners were fond of good food and strong drink. Henry Taylor's tavern had both and Mary Frances had seen to it that only the best crystal flasks of every shape and size were exhibited in the windows. Per her instructions, each item was illuminated, making the different colors of the spirits in them sparkle invitingly. The shops on Oxford all would stay open for their carriage trade until eleven o'clock. The tavern stayed open an hour later. Shoppers were always hungry and thirsty.

Mary Frances would have liked very much to have taken a walk this night, but the windows of the tavern were minus their colorful sparkle. She'd had to sell her displays for food and supplies. Something about her empty windows had affected the tavern's usually cheerful atmosphere. Sensing difficulties, only a few customers stopped in when her window exhibits had disappeared.

Longingly, her eyes sought out the allure of the confectioners and fruiterers across the way, whose shop windows, unlike her own, were filled with pyramids of apples, peaches, figs, grapes, and oranges. Looking deeper into the shop, she could see the proprietor's family joking and playing with their children at the evening meal. An acute wave of loneliness and disappointment swept through her and she turned quickly away.

Massaging a dull ache in the small of her back, she tiredly noted a stack of paperwork on the dining room table. Additionally there were letters she must write in explanation of Henry's absence to relatives, suppliers, friends, and associates. What could she say? It had been three weeks. It was as if Henry no longer existed on the face of the earth. There had been no more official calls since the night of his arrest. Sooner or later she knew she would have to contend with the surrender of the tavern. It was not in her name and there were no official papers leaving it to her. How could there be? Her husband was not dead. At least as far as she knew, Henry must be still alive.

She looked again at her happy healthy children playing with Alma on the floor. Their youthful resiliency amazed her. Emma had finally stopped asking every other minute for the location of her father. Thank goodness the children are so young, she thought moving slowly toward the table, Henry will someday be just a hazy memory to Emma and Clara certainly will never miss nor remember him at all.

Sitting down, she fingered the papers, allowing her mind to dwell for a few moments on the weighty matters presented by them. Alma. How was she going to tell her she'd have to let her go. The young Irish girl lived in terrible poverty only a few alleys away. She had been so incredibly happy to find work with them. Henry's irresponsibility was going to affect a lot of people, she thought with a sigh, but all she would care about were the ones she was able to care about. There was too much to think about.

How ever would she manage it all when she couldn't even seem to concentrate on the littlest things?

God said, she remonstrated, to take one day at a time and well she would. It was all she could handle at the moment. However, now everything seemed to oppose God's wisdom. What she did each day would have far reaching consequences for the morrow. To act or not was a decision in itself that could be very costly. She nervously brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead that was annoying her. The time was rapidly arriving when even what she did that very minute could affect body and limb.

Well, there was no putting it off. She straightened her back and smoothed her skirts. "Alma."

"Yes, mum."

"Come sit with me, Alma. I need to talk to you."

She watched as Alma settled each child with something to keep them busy, then hesitantly approached her at the table. Alma didn't sit, but played nervously with the back of one of the dining room chairs, waiting for Mary Frances to speak. The girl's _eyes_ never left her young charges long enough to lose track of what the children were about.

She's so good with the girls, she thought sadly. What will I ever do without her.

"Alma . . "

"If its about me pay, mum, I can wait a bit longer."

"It's not that, Alma. I can pay you, but only half what I owe. It's because of my circumstances I can no longer keep you on. I'm terribly sorry, but this hasn't been fair for any of us. I've written you a good letter though and I'm sure it won't be long before you'll find another position. In fact I've taken the liberty of speaking to the family across the way...

"That's too kind of you, Mrs. Taylor, what with all your troubles n'all. But me father found a bit a work and I'd like nothing more than ta stay to the end of the week." Alma finally sat, but it was nervously on the edge of her chair. She touched Mary Frances' gown barely with the tips of her square fingers. "I'm sorry 'bout Mr. Taylor, mum," she said, pulling her hand back self-consciously.

"That's very kind, Alma, but I couldn't impose without being able to..."

"I want to, mum," she interrupted quickly, "you've been so kind and don't deserve what's happened to ye."

"Our good Lord says to take one day at a time--and so we shall, Alma. Till weeks end would be wonderful. But, if you find a position please don't hesitate to go immediately on to it."

"Good enough, mum! It's done then," she said, rising and straightening her pristine apron.

"I'll always remember your kindness, Alma," she said, staring forlornly at the girl's broad retreating back.

"Wish I could do more, Mrs. Taylor. I'll put the wee ones ta bed now. Then I go."

"Thanks, Alma."

Mary Frances looked on with affection as Alma took up a squealing Clara and pulled a giggling Emma to her feet. How will I get along without her, she thought with a huge lump in her throat. Swiping a wayward tear, she firmly set her jaw and mentally reiterated the fierce vow not to cry. Whatever the future holds, she swore silently, I'll face it with all the courage I can muster and save the crying only for weak moments. Weakness, she knew, was a precious luxury she could ill afford, therefore, she would spend her tears wisely. They would mean something then when she shed them--at least to her.

• • •

Each difficult day that had followed, agonizingly turned into months and conditions worsened. Mary Frances' fierce oath took on the form of iron resolve. But in spite of everything she did, her establishment painfully disintegrated into ruin and her community position dropped to that of local barmaid. To make matters even worse, she learned of her husband's shameful banishment from England. The local gossip took great pleasure in relaying the removal of his name from the social directories to everyone but her; kindly neighbors took it upon themselves to break the news. Then on the day when their entire commercial venture was collapsing around her, she was the unfortunate recipient of an official communique stipulating her husband had been sent to the worst of Australian penal colonies. Bracing herself behind the bar, as the customer who drank her last bit of ale and left without paying turned out to be the bearer of her eviction notice, she clenched her small fists and swore a passel of oaths that would have brought on her own banishment from society.

"You sound like me when Frederick died, my dear!" came the clear ring of a highly cultured voice from the main tavern entry.

Startled out of her tirade, Mary Frances' sheepish eyes were the surprised recipient of the familiar visage of a fashionably dressed woman she hadn't seen in ages--her famous aunt, now retired from the London stage. Attempting to recover through acute embarrassment, she declared, "Auntie Liz! Whatever are you doing here!" Quickly removing her apron, she came around the bar and gave her a big hug. Stepping back to get a better look, she immediately slipped an arm around that of the vivacious older woman and led her off through the double doors to the living quarters of the tavern. "Can I brew you some tea, auntie?--I just can't believe you're here!--But whatever would make you swear so about Uncle Freddy?" she questioned, trying to avoid discussion regarding her own prior poor use of the English language.

"Well, Birdie, when your uncle died, it suddenly dawned on me one day that he'd gone off and left me with a big theatre to run. I guess I just plain got miffed he'd left me all alone. Seems silly now that I think about it, but I was certainly feeling bristly at the time."

"What brings you to Oxford Street?"

"You, luv. I waited for you to come to either your mother or me, but finally decided to give you a little shove."

"But how did you know I was in need?" Mary Frances asked, completely forgetting her offer of tea and sinking down beside her aunt on the small sofa.

"Well, aside from the gossip, it certainly wasn't from anything you said. You're such a private, independent, little thing. What finally did it for me was your windows."

"The windows?" Mary Frances asked in puzzlement.

"Yes. You see, I'd had my eye on that beautiful crystal decanter in your front window. You know the one, tall with a slender neck and graceful spout. I decided to use the excuse to come down and purchase it. I was so flabbergasted when it was gone, like a ninny I simply stepped back in my coach and went home. It wasn't until I got completely inside the house, I realized they were _all_ gone."

"All gone? Oh, I see." She felt the first flush of discomfiture. What could she say to this woman she adored? Feelings of shame wrenched her down into an all too familiar bleakness and in spite of her intense resolve, a tear slipped down her cheek.

"You see, my dear, as long as your windows were filled I thought you were managing, but... oh,..." Aunt Liz immediately pulled a lace handkerchief from her reticule. However, instead of giving it to Mary Frances, she dabbed at her own eyes, offering distracting explanation as she did, "Isn't the smoke and grime from all this new manufacturing terrible? You really should keep a clean handkerchief tucked up your sleeve at all times, Birdie. You just never know when its going to get to you," she said matter-of-factly, handing Mary Frances another lace hanky from her purse. This gesture was followed by a warm broad grin.

"Oh, Auntie Liz, I don't think I've ever been so glad to see anyone in my entire life!" she declared, losing a goodly portion of her brave resolve as another large drop escaped down her cheek.

"There, there child, if anyone deserves a good cry, it's you. I don't know how you've done it. You're certainly not lacking in spunk and courage. But now, my dear, hear me out. I think it's time you and the children let your aunt and their grandmother do a bit of your worrying for you. Just for a while, mind you, until you're back on your feet."

"Oh lordy, I just couldn't. We're all such terrible trouble!" "Nonsense! Now you get packed. I know for a fact that Jane is dying to spend some time with her grandchildren and as for you, young lady, we're going to seriously discuss your future!"

# CHAPTER I

London, August 1851. The London of Queen Victoria's time was a city like no place else on the earth. Globally, people were saying that it was the wonder of the world because they were unable to consider any other phrase as appropriate. When travelers came to London expectations were high, for only in London was there such vast and varied traffic on the streets. Shops were filled to overflowing with the latest goods, and there were more railway lines, both above and below the ground, than anywhere else. The first under the river tunnel of the world had been built there and an exceptional queen, Victoria, presided over an empire that covered much of the earth's surface. But London's economy was tenuous. There were shivers of strain running through the very tops of the social structure and terrible poverty was interwoven beneath it's seemingly remarkable surface. There was such extreme opposite threads of human existence living in close proximity that as quickly as one could turn a corner, even the most sophisticated of travelers could not help but be shocked by the differences. While London expanded at its edges, the center, the City of London's large residential population disappeared to be replaced by a crowded commercial center filled with financial houses, exchanges, agencies, and commodity brokers. Thousands of people came to work in this vast business web. They came on foot, by rail, and the horse-drawn omnibus. The elite rich, to which the commercial world catered, continued to compete for the biggest and finest residences in all of London.

But the literary and artistic populace found their own nooks in the growing capital and Aunt Elizabeth Yates was an accomplished retired actress who still knew her way around the world of glittering people, footlights, and lavish costumes--not to mention the bulging box offices. This establishment of beautiful theatres was often graced by none other than the Queen and Prince Consort themselves.

But, before these artistic productions could be mounted, there was the usual gathering of the intellectual Establishment and those of high Bohemia in the villas of artists or the houses of the socially elite. It was, however, in her own elegant home, that Aunt Elizabeth would introduce Mary Frances to an artistic world whose ins-and-outs she knew all too well. That evening, however, would not come about without a certain polish and preparation of the one to be introduced. Although, Elizabeth Yates herself had been pleased to note, not much of either had been required. Mary Frances was a natural!

Elizabeth, however, left nothing to chance. She developed a new persona for her niece and the old was quickly swept away. Mary Frances Taylor no longer existed. Even the relational surnames of her mother and children would be forever altered. Enter, the newly polished, highly talented beautiful Walking Lady of the English stage, Laura Keene. As she came down the curved staircase of her aunt's home, the guests present easily noted the flawless complexion, exquisite figure, and fine graceful carriage. One distinguished gentleman was heard to exuberantly express that she had a fine water-color appearance about her that exuded delicacy of touch and an elegant suggestion of detail in character and action. But Laura's greatest glory was a brilliant crown of shiny chestnut hair that made her the envy of every woman present. Tonight her luxuriant tresses were caught up with a miniature pearl coronet at the crown only to be allowed to cascade freely down her back, the ends of which gently brushed a tiny waist. Feathered ringlets surrounded an aristocratic face that held two very large expressive eyes of a similar chestnut hue. She was the epitome of charm, elegance, grace, and good manners.

Henry Farren was visually dazzled and instantaneously became his usual curious self in responding to all of these qualities. "Elizabeth, my dear, who is this charming young woman you've kept in hiding from us all? Please, I beg an introduction."

"I think, better still, my dear Henry, you must come and see her perform in Richmond at the Theatre Royal. She'll be playing Shakespeare's, Juliet."

"Ah, a role that definitely takes some skill and training in the craft. An excellent idea! Tell me, which stock company has created this new talent?"

"Henry, don't be such a clinchpoop! Come and see for yourself or be trampled in the rush. It s up to you whether or not the Olympic Theatre is the first or the last to have her walk-the-boards."

"I will, Elizabeth, my dear. You can depend on it!" Farren declared, as his assessing eyes followed Laura from across the room.

"I know I can, dearest Henry," Elizabeth crooned, leaving him to drool alone over the possibility of a large box office response.

For the first time in many years, Laura felt as if she had returned to a familiar environment. The elegant plush surroundings matched and suited her very nature and she was absolutely aglow with the commingling. Happiness brought out her sparkling charisma. Her quick wit and natural good nature charmed the guests. Tomorrow she would make her debut at the Theatre Royal in a part that would demonstrate her credibility as an actress of calibre. It would establish her reputation and if her wildest dreams were satisfied, she would next appear on the great London stage. Her eyes were filled with love as she watched the older woman work her way toward her from across the room.

"Don't change a hair on your head, luvy, or the expression on your face," Elizabeth warned with a chuckle. "See that man standing over there staring at you?"

"Yes--I think so."

"Well, that my sweetest little Birdie, is Henry Farren, actor-manager of the Olympic Theatre."

"Is the Olympic Theatre where I think it is, auntie?" Laura almost lost her composure.

"It is, my pet, wonderfully located on Wyck Street Strand, in London. Ah, ah! Remember, I said not a hair on your beautiful head--or your expression!" Elizabeth warned.

"How can I not?" Laura desperately struggled to do her aunts bidding. "I'm fairly bursting with the excitement!"

"I know, sweet, but you must practice being more jaded about these things. If you glowed anymore, we wouldn't need lights to illuminate the room."

"I can't help it, Auntie Liz. It would just be too good to be true."

"Believe it, Miss Laura Keene!" her aunt whispered emphatically as she whirled about to greet a rapidly approaching guest. "Sir Edward, what a delight. I'm so glad you came. Have you met my niece, Laura Keene?"

"No, madam, I have not had the privilege." Turning to Laura, "I assume we are going to be hearing a lot more from you, Miss Keene."

"I hope so, Sir Edward."

"No hoping involved, I'm sure. London can use some new brilliance!"

"You are very kind, my lord."

"Not kind at all, my dear, just honest. Please, call me Edward. All my friends do. You know, this is really most uncanny, but I have a play that I think might interest you."

"Ah, but my lord, you have yet to see me perform."

"Edward, please. It's just a hunch at this moment, Miss Keene, but I trust it."

"Laura, darling," Elizabeth interrupted before she could make a retort. "Here's someone I'd like you to meet. My dear, meet Mr. Nathaniel Hawthorne."

"Mr. Hawthorne," Laura turned eyes of recognition toward the author, "I've just finished reading, _The House of the Seven Gables._

What an extraordinary story. I'm afraid I got quite caught up in it."

"So then, Miss Keene, you enjoy the gothic romance?"

"Very much. I just wish I could have been as successful as Phoebe Pyncheon in my own shop. But alas, it was not to be. I do so appreciate your writing, Mr. Hawthorne. History is one of my favorite subjects and feel I have learned a great deal more of it in the reading of your novel. I appreciated this because I know so little of New England."

"You must come and visit sometime, Miss Keene. I would be most happy to take you on a tour of our infamous Salem in Massachusetts. Sir Edward, have you been to the United States?"

"Can't say that I have, Mr. Hawthorne, but I have certainly heard of you by reputation. I'm a writer too, although I write mostly plays. I have a script I wrote almost twenty years ago that I think would serve Miss Keene here very well."

"You're a clever man, Sir Edward. You must entice Miss Keene before she is stolen from our midst," Hawthorne advised. He turned then, bowing graciously over Laura's hand. "Until we tour Salem, Miss Keene? It was certainly a delight to meet you."

"You must come to the theatre one night, Mr. Hawthorne. Please let me know when you do and I'll make certain you have a good seat."

"You are very kind, Miss Keene. I shall make a special point of doing so."

"Excuse me if you will, gentlemen, I must keep my niece circulating. There are so many people she has yet to meet."

Elizabeth neatly extricated Laura from between the two gentleman and led her away. They did not make it far before they heard Henry Farren's voice calling out from their right across the room. Elizabeths face showed her obvious delight when she found him standing in conversation with Sir Edward. Henry continued to wave them enthusiastically over.

As the women approached, Farren remarked with eager enthusiasm, "In a matter of weeks, Miss Keene, Sir Edward and I will have you opening on the London stage. What would you say to that?"

Elizabeth gave her elbow a warning squeeze and Laura immediately restructured her retort.

"I would say you should not buy a pig-in-a-poke, Mr. Farren. You have yet to see me perform," she warned, glancing over at her aunt to see if she had responded appropriately.

Elizabeth nodded ever so slightly before adding, "My goodness, Henry! I can't remember when I have ever seen you quite so without caution. But then, I understand. You must see the potential in my niece that I do. But to assure myself of this, what is it the two of you have in mind for her?"

"As I told Laura, Elizabeth, I have written a play. It is entitled _The Lady of Lyons_ and the role of Pauline Deschapelles would be absolutely perfect for your niece. Henry here has graciously agreed to mount the play at the Olympic if Miss Keene is willing to do the part."

"I think Laura should read the play first," Elizabeth offered coyly. "After all, her reputation depends on the appropriateness of the role and its ability to display her talent well. Sir Edward, why not send the script around tomorrow and give Laura the opportunity of making an educated decision."

"Sir Edward would be happy to do that I'm sure. However, Elizabeth, I want a little more from you than just a promise to read the script. I want her on my stage and I want..."

"I know what you want, dearest Henry, and you shall have your answer tomorrow evening at the Theatre Royal. You both will be there won't you?" Elizabeth turned a keen assessing eye on the two men.

Both nodded dutifully as Laura's heart sunk. How could her aunt let the opportunity for the London stage slip through their fingers? She wanted desperately to elbow the older woman, but kept her face placid and didn't make any untoward movements in her aunt's direction.

"Lizzy, you always know best." Henry chirped. "Sir Edward, are you for the Theatre Royal tomorrow evening?"

"I don't see why not. With a little rearranging of my schedule I think I could manage a sojourn to Richmond. Now, young lady, what do you think of all this adulation? Will it knock you off balance to have us two old duffers out there in the audience tomorrow evening?"

"I would feel highly honored that you'd made the effort, gentlemen." Laura offered, thinking her heart would absolutely stop at the thought of them attending her debut performance.

"Then it's set." Elizabeth stated matter-of-factly.

Laura suddenly realized that her Aunt Elizabeth was looking very pleased about the whole affair. Perhaps, she mused, so should I. After all, Aunt Elizabeth wouldn't have insisted on having these men attend her performance of Juliet if it didn't mean something for them to be in the audience. A radiant smile began to rise like the morning sun on Laura's face. Henry Farren and Sir Edward obviously took a great deal of pleasure basking in its warmth.

• • •

Her performance of Juliet was a tremendous success. Twenty days later Laura brought with her to London an established reputation. This was the reputation and subsequent reason for which her aunt had held back her response to Farren. Now, as she prepared to appear as Pauline Deschapelles at the Olympic Theatre, she was given the status she had earned and deserved. As the roaring applause from the audience reverberated throughout the theatre, she stood like a petite breathtaking porcelain figurine before the curtain, soaking up the adoration. At that moment, all her troubles had vanished far far away and Henry's atrocity ceased to exist in that incredible span of time. Life became a glittering array of jewels. There in the front row she was able to capture the beaming faces of her mother, Hannah, and her husband William. She blew them a kiss and watched their obvious pride in the recognition. Never had she felt the mass instigation of such warm elation and incredible joy. It was as if her veins were filled with an intoxicating liquor and her heart was overflowing with ecstasy. Tears came to her eyes and she knew without a doubt the theatre was in her blood forever. It suited her completely. It was like her own skin. It was--home!

Taking a deep breath and inhaling the moment, she reluctantly turned and headed for the wings. As she left the stage, she was embraced by her proud aunt.

"Will there ever be another time exactly like this one, Aunt Liz?" Laura anxiously asked over the older woman's delicate shoulder.

Releasing her niece slightly, Elizabeth remained holding her upper arms, gently aligning her with direct eye contact as she advised with assurance, "This is just the beginning for you, my pet. There will be many more moments like this. Perhaps not producing a feeling quite as new as the one you have now, but I can assure you that as long as you embrace the theatre in the manner you just did, the audience will sense your real sincerity and return your love.

"How can you be so sure?" Laura questioned.

"Because, my dear, you incarnate the most important ingredient society needs at this moment. It's what Sir Edward and Henry Farren see in you, as do I. You are the acceptable face of class to the new bourgeoisie and they will show their admiration by insisting you are presented as their adored leading lady."

"You make it sound as if it has already happened," Laura said breathlessly.

"Come with me," Aunt Elizabeth said, taking her by the hand. "Let me try to show you what it is the public sees in you." She led Laura to the dressing room, ushered her inside to stand before the full length mirror, then turned and closed the door from the obtrusive eyes of the curious. "Try to see yourself objectively, Laura. It's a good habit for an actress to develop because you are your own product in trade." Returning to stand at the hem of Laura's large skirts, she went on speaking to the image in the mirror. "Look at the way you hold yourself, child. You have an ersatz royalty they all crave. Tonight out there on the stage you showed them that you are swift of mind with a spirited chic and an innocent flirtatious appeal that would melt the coldest heart."

"Good heavens, you saw all that in me?" Laura whispered, looking duly nonplussed.

"Yes, but most importantly, it's what the audience sees. You'll be able to have your pick of good roles, luvy, and you deserve it! Never have I seen anyone more dedicated to their craft, nor manipulate their natural talent with such a sense of deportment, mischief, and aristocratic spirit. You lend a warm wonderful sense of wholesomeness to everything you do, my child!"

"I... I'm absolutely overwhelmed with your praise, Aunt Liz. I could not have received it from anyone I'd rather have say it than you. I've worshiped your theatrical ability since I was a little girl and to have you say what you just said means more than you'll ever know. Do you really think I can live up to your hopes for me!"

"Go forth and conquer, Miss Laura Keene. The world is waiting for you and I for one will enjoy tremendously watching it all happen for you!"

"You sound as if you'll be leaving me soon." Feeling suddenly insecure, Laura diligently searched the intent of the older woman. "Auntie Liz... Lordy! I'm not wrong am I?"

"No, Birdie, I'm afraid you are not."

"But you can't leave, Aunt Liz! I depend on you so! I'm not ready to ...."

"Yes, you are child. More ready than you'll ever know and if I stay, you'll never have that wonderful sense of independence that you need to make your life work for you. I'll not cheat you of that no matter how much I would enjoy staying with you. Besides, the theatre belongs to a different set of ideas now. I'm not so certain that I'm up to it anymore."

"How can you say that! No one knows more about the theatre than you do and your expertise is exactly what I need... now more than ever!" Laura was feeling a sense of hopeless desperation and seized the moment to dissuade her aunt from the direction in which she could see Elizabeth was determined to go. "What in the world makes someone so knowledgeable think they don't fit in anymore?"

"Because, my dear, it's in the nature of the theatre to change with the times. The new industrialization has accomplished that for your generation. My theatre was filled with the idealism of romanticism. Unfortunately, it created no real reform as we had hoped. Now the playwrights fill our theatres with these strong social themes that search the depths of human beings and society. I'm all about fantasy, dreams, and escapism. I find this new approach appallingly oppressive. It makes me exceptionally tired."

"I know I haven't been in the theatre long, Aunt Liz, but I can tell you this from the short time I have been... pretty much everyone feels as you do. The new middle class that you say has been created by industrialism still leans to the romantic." Laura tried to persuade her aunt, but saw a tiredness about her eyes she had not witnessed before.

"I know, my dear, but the richness and expansiveness of my romantic world has given way to a materialism that is only layered in escapist adornments. The theatre is caught up in a clash between mass eclectic taste based on a faux sense of romanticism while the avante-garde intellectual study realism and social change. You are young, Birdie, and I have a remedy to help ease your way through this difficult period of transition."

"There, Aunt Liz, don't you see?--you've just demonstrated why you must stay with me!" Laura pleaded uselessly.

"No, dear, I just demonstrated why you must take the next step I am about to give you."

"What do you mean?" Laura asked skeptically, trying to hide the growing panic she was feeling.

"There's an English actress who's creating a certain realistic reform in theatre costume and design. She's well in touch with the times and I think, Laura, you should study under her."

"What can she show me that you cannot?" Laura asked stubbornly.

"For one thing, she is active in the theatre. I am not. She can take you into the crafts of your time, Laura, and in doing so, secure your future in them."

"Oh? How pray tell can she do that any better than you?"

"Well, for one thing, as an actress in her own right she plays fashionable ladies of high comedy extremely well."

"Who is she?" Laura was beginning to feel pugnacious.

"Lucy Elizabeth... let's see, I believe Mathews is her married name. I think she ended up marrying an actor she had invited into her company, Charles Mathews. Right now she's managing the Royal Lyceum Theatre. Yes, I'm certain that's what she is doing."

Laura became all ears. She too had heard about this innovative woman. "Do you mean Madame Vestris, Aunt Liz?" Yes.

"I would love to be a part of her company, but she is very selective and may not have any interest in me at all."

"Laura, look at yourself in the mirror. Get past your feelings of self-consciousness and see with the objective eyes of a good business woman. Madame Vestris seeks the real thing, not imitators of refined deportment. There before you in the mirror is a genuine lady. God gave you that gift. No one on earth can fake such true grace successfully."

Laura's critical eye scanned the image in the mirror, attempting to find the objectivity Elizabeth called forth in her. For a few brief seconds she fought with her self-doubts; some that had plagued her since childhood. Only momentarily was the battle fierce, but then her keen instinct for a well planned survival took over. It was a lesson she would not soon forget, nor toss aside indiscriminately. With wiser eyes, she viewed her reflected image as the product she would utilize for her own benefit and those she loved. She would market her talent well from this time forward. Raising her chin a little higher and straightening, elevating her posture, she turned away from the mirror to face her aunt.

"Ah, I see that you've got it. Only you, my dear, can lose it. Remember that always and you'll be fine." Elizabeth kissed her softly on the cheek.

"Thank you. Thank you for all your wise counsel and faith in me, Aunt Elizabeth. I will arrange to see Madame Vestris as soon as it is feasible for me to do so."

"I don't think that will be necessary, Laura. Word has it that she will come to you. She's already interested." Elizabeth sank with a satisfied sigh onto a small settee. "What fun this has been for me. Soon I shall see your sweet face on billings everywhere and I can point to them with pride." She looked at Laura and smiled wickedly. "I shall be a terrible braggart you know."

Laura threw back her head and the heartfelt laughter that emitted was like the sound of exquisite chimes.

• • •

Madame Vestris thought of her acting company as representatives of English society. The plays presented at her theatre were about the gentry and her actors and actresses were models of manners. Having seen Laura's spectacular performance upon the stage at the Olympic she was determined to persuade her to come join her company. In her usual extravagant and detailed manner, she knew just how to appeal to Laura's ambition and aesthetic sensitivities. Studying her carefully as she walked down the aisle toward the front row of the Royal Lyceum, Lucy noted that no standard or reformed detail of the theatre she was now managing seemed to escape the intelligent scrutiny of the young actress. When their eyes finally met, to her great delight Madame Vestris found no competitive challenge in them, just an intense vein of curiosity accompanied by the refined admiration of an open mind.

As Laura entered the auditorium her hungry gaze took in the now famous Vestris box set before her on the stage. It was elaborately equipped exactly like a room in a real home. There were richly covered walls with pictures, rugs on the floor, bookcases with real books, expensive furniture, and elegant bric-a-brac arranged in attractive locations. Even the doors had real knobs. The room could have belonged in the home of any number of Laura's acquaintances it was so true-to-life.

"Miss Keene! It is a great pleasure to finally meet you. What do you think of my theatre?"

"I have to say, Madame, it is all I'd heard it would be and much more. But then your reputation as a manager procedes you," Laura responded graciously, seating herself in the front row as Madame Vestris had indicated she do from her standing position center stage. "I find I have a great deal of interest in the way you manage to assemble all the elements of a production and coordinate them into a smooth integrated whole, Madame."

"Thank you, Miss Keene. The audience seems to really appreciate the effort."

"I agree with them. The realistic details of your sets are highly conducive to presenting the theatre in a more _acceptable_ state. I mean to the elite in society, especially those that one would like to draw as patrons. I think your work aligns itself a great deal with my own ideas."

"Oh, and what are those, my dear?"

"Just a personal dream of mine, Madame," Laura stated softly.

"A dream? The theatre is filled with the dreams of talented people. Tell me, what is this vision you have?" Madame Vestris asked, seating herself lightly on the arm of one of the plushly upholstered chairs in the set.

"To alter the reputation of the theatre!" Laura stated profoundly, then regretted the outburst upon noticing Madame's eyebrows flash momentarily upward. "Goodness, I didn't mean to sound so presumptive, Madame. What I meant was to be considered in a more universal sense. Historically the theatre has always had to withstand the onslaught of a bad reputation, especially with the more acceptable branches of society." Laura felt she was burying herself with each sentence uttered.

"I find your observations unusually sensitive, Miss Keene, for one so new to the profession. But then why should I be surprised that an excellent mind is behind your meteoric rise in the theatre. Tell me, how do you visualize the theatre?" Madame Vestris quickly found herself staring into _eyes_ filled with the bright light of anticipation. Knowing the young woman was unaware of the effect, she watched Laura change her body posture; a definite giveaway of enthusiasm for the subject.

Laura sat eagerly forward in her seat, hands tightly clasped, as she declared with affirmation, "I see the theatre in the same light as one's own home where there are all the gracious accoutrements to entertain special guests."

Madame Vestris studied Laura intently.

Under such scrutinizing from a woman relatively unknown, Laura began to feel the heat rise to her cheeks. Witnessing the ensuing brightening of the young woman's countenance, Madame Vestris was quite certain she had chosen the proper manner in which to entice Laura to join her company. Rising in graceful decision, she strolled through one of the stage doors and disappeared from Laura's sight.

Oh heavens, Laura worried silently in the uncomfortable throes of distress, wishing divine intervention would cool the color in her face, now I've really done it! The woman probably thinks I'm a total provincial! The thought had no more than passed through her mind and Madame Vestris reappeared. The theatre manager was standing in confident anticipation on the stage directly in front of her. Cringing inside, Laura prepared herself for the stripping of her only recently acquired professional veneer.

Lucy gave Laura a once over look that heightened her embarrassed countenance and then quite suddenly she interrupted the heated facial flood. "My dear, since you mentioned the magic word _accoutrements_ in my theatre, I think its time I show you what I have prepared for your visit with us." Turning with an eager flourish, Lucy took the next few moments to comfortably seat herself in the same upholstered chair she had perched on before, painstakingly arranging her skirts.

Each vanishing second that ticked by brought Laura a new prickly sensation of disconcerted anguish. Just when she thought she could not bear the pressure any longer, Madame Vestris took action

"Nadine! Are you all ready back there?"

"Yes, Madame," came a clear ringing chorus of feminine voices from backstage.

"Then let us begin to bombard Miss Keene with the _accoutrements_ we will place at her disposal when she joins us."

Laura's eyes widened in startled surprise at this completely opposite turn of events from those that had been quite wretched in her own mind. Before she could completely recover her composure, one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen swept onto the stage in a breathtaking gown. Not only was the design of the dress the latest Paris fashion, the fabric rich and of the highest quality, but the accessories were in elegantly good taste right down to the satin and lace mules on her petite carefully placed feet. Laura was very certain her mouth had dropped wide open in amazement as one after another elaborate costume was creatively displayed on stage; each new design was equally as beautiful as the first one witnessed. Even more visually amazing were the number of attractive men that with a great sense of gentility, provided the quiet and unassuming escort. For an actress who had achieved notable success in a _breeches role,_ Laura mused, Vestris certainly knows the way a woman should be garbed! Aside from everything else the costumes visually represented, Laura decided, it was certainly the answer to a leading lady's prayers. Most of the actresses she knew had to furnish their own gowns and were lucky if they had three to make do for a large number of different roles. It must have been more moments than Laura was completely aware of that she sat in amazed contemplative silence. It was Madame Vestris that brought her out of the enticing reverie such beauty had created in her very hungry imagination.

"I take it by the look on your face, Miss Keene, you too agree that the theatre should represent the height of fashion and excellent manners?"

"It is my absolute and fondest wish, Madame!" Laura responded in natural uncontrolled exuberance, then realized too late she had blown the opportunity to negotiate from a position of aloof strength. Concern filled her expressive face.

Lucy laughed heartily. "Don't worry, Miss Keene, I am still prepared to make you an excellent offer."

At that moment a man Laura did not know stepped onto the set and approached Madame Vestris with easy familiarity. Leaning down to kiss her lightly on the cheek, he asked affectionately, "Is my timing still good, Lucy?" then turned and smiled at Laura.

Madame Vestris lay a bejeweled hand lightly on the man's forearm, "Allow me to introduce you to my husband, Charles Mathews, Miss Keene."

Charles immediately left the stage and approached Laura with extended hand. "Miss Keene, are you going to give me the pleasure of welcoming you as one of us to the Royal Lyceum? I do hope Lucy has managed to tempt your sense of the aesthetic, not to mention what must be a tremendous desire to fulfill a great talent in the best of settings?"

His smile was once again warm and reassuring. Laura could see why Madame Vestris had been drawn to him. He was the epitome of the charm of the gentry. She found herself bathed in the warmth of his generous smile and had a strong impulse to leap up and say, _of course she has! I 'd be an absolute fool not to become a member of your company!_ But, for business purposes, she knew she had already displayed far too much enthusiasm. Attempting to curb her bursting excitement, she flashed him one of her own gracious smiles, hoping her excited breathing was not evident to anyone but her. "It would seem, Mr. Mathews, we all have much in common--especially our mutual belief that the theatre should be invitingly lavish..."

"Go on, my dear!" Lucy encouraged.

"... a place for laughter and gaiety, and the actors refined." Laura went on somewhat breathlessly, feeling as if the very roots of her hair were blushing too.

"A setting for exactly the kind of actress who can certainly reinforce this conception--one Miss Laura Keene," Charles added easily. Aiding her to stand and placing her arm through his own, he glanced up at his beaming wife. "Wouldn't you agree, Lucy?"

"Yes, I must say, Charles, that I do. I would further add," she said with a twinkle in her eyes, "that we have all quite openly displayed our mutual connecting link, Miss Keene, and Charles and I are prepared to offer you the first leading role we'd like to see you perform at the Lyceum."

"How about it, Miss Keene?" Charles asked, stepping back and gesturing broadly at the full range of the theatre interior.

Laura knew she should request time to consider, but Aunt Elizabeth had already assured her this was the next step to take. Still, there was her mother and two little daughters to think about, therefore, she would proceed with caution. "I would certainly be honored to work under your combined tutelage, but I cannot give you my final answer until I know everything."

"Of course you cannot!" Lucy reassured her hesitancy, glancing with satisfaction at Charles. "Bring her to the office, Charles. It's time we got down to brass tacks!"

"And when Lucy says it's time to get down to brass tacks, that's exactly what will happen, Miss Keene. By the time you leave the office you will know all, but most importantly, you will be satisfied."

• • •

Charles Mathews had been right. Laura soon discovered training under Mr. and Mrs. Mathews brought her new refined abilities in high comedy and she learned the visual luxury of beautiful costuming combined with elaborately detailed sets. Realizing the incredible opportunity to study under Madame Vestris, Laura took advantage of the ability to hone her own managerial skills. As Charles and Lucy had promised, she opened on April 12, 1852, at the Royal Lyceum in the leading role as Therese Michel in _A Chain of Events._ Not only was her name listed immediately under Madame Vestris, but as Aunt Elizabeth had predicted, her picture had been exhibited in print-shops all over London. Laura realized she had become the carefully chosen, most special satellite in the Vestris galaxy for the season.

Standing in front of the dressing room mirror, Laura was pleased with her reflection. What a change, she thought, from the woman whose eyes had been haunted with heart breaking anguish and the terrible pain of Henrys betrayal. Looking back at her was a woman beautifully gowned in billowing white satin and sparkling jewels. Tonight she would be surrounded with a large cast of twenty-eight members, including Madame herself--and Charles too! Glancing about her dressing room, she smiled in what seemed to her wicked pleasure as she luxuriated in the row of lovely dresses with their elegant accessories, remembering shamelessly the glorious feminine feelings that swept over her when she wore each one.

"Thank you, dearest Lord!" she whispered, overwhelmed with feelings of the incredible love that had rescued her.

_A Chain of Events_ was a smashing success! It played for sixty-one nights, which was an unheard of accomplishment in the London theatre of the time. The Mathews had elected to serve it up as the only plate on the bill during a time when a curtain-raiser was considered a necessity. The end of the play, however, often was the event that took the audiences breath away. This incredible scene contained one of the production theories of Madame Vestris with the climax of a violent storm and shipwreck. With great curiosity, Laura had avidly watched the building and application of stage mechanisms contrived to create a sturdily built vessel which rocked on a sea of waving gauze. Transparent openings were placed in the back cloths through which flashes of calcium flares could be seen and sheets of silver-green paper illuminated from behind to create the ominous warning of a hurricane. Laura did not miss a detail of the preparation of this spectacular scene and found the design and construction fascinating. Never did she tire of seeing its affect in all the nights the play lasted.

It was during one of these many performances that an actor well known to the English public and the United States came to see _A Chain of Events_ and discovered Laura. As he sat watching the elaborate play, every time she entered he felt a unique sense of exhilaration that only an exceptional talent had the ability to create for him. It was an instinctive feeling he had come to depend upon over the years of his vast experience and in the full sway of its pull on him, he determined he had to acquire that talent before leaving London to return to the States. Laura Keene would be absolutely perfect for the elegant well-equipped theatre he had so labored to establish in New York.

J. W. Wallack had to admit that even at his age he was completely dazzled by this beautiful young actress with the magnificent crowning glory of lush auburn hair. Intently studying her from his position in the audience, a plan began to formulate in his mind. As was his habit under these artistic stimulations, a long slender finger raised automatically to settle at the base of a neatly trimmed silver mustache, his narrowed motionless eyes taking in every nuance of the object of his scrutiny.

James Wallack was still a very handsome man and his relatively tall frame was lithe and athletic. He had not allowed himself to rapidly deteriorate and go to fat over the years. Here before him was a woman of culture and breeding that his masculine sensibility could easily comprehend truly belonged in the most elegant of surroundings. Madame Vestris had certainly chosen well, he carefully considered, and yet he could not conceive that Laura was the kind of actress of easy virtue that gossips associated with the Vestris company.

When the curtain came down, he rose immediately from his seat and turned to go backstage, then halted his progress midway. No! Wilton got Jenny Lind to the Barnum, he remembered with definite calculation. I'll send J. Hall Wilton to get Keene for me!

But before he could extricate himself through a side entrance, he was discovered, then immediately surrounded by adoring patrons of his own.

• • •

It was close to what would be the end of the last few performances of _A Chain of Events_ and Laura was exhausted. She had removed her elegant costume and most of her stage makeup to sit momentarily wrapped in her robe on the chaise in her dressing room. It was unlike her usually spunky nature, but she had begun to dread the journey between home and theatre. London was changing for the worse on a day-to-day basis. Visually shuddering at the thought of making her way past the human, animal excrement and waste of all kinds lying in the open depositories or just anywhere, she knew her eyes could not avoid the filth any longer. Cholera and typhoid had become rampant. Laura knew too many working women who had contacted tuberculosis and she had begun to fear for the health of her mother and children. Her own exposure to these desperate circumstances on a daily basis was becoming more of a concern since she was their only provider.

It was a worry, however, she shouldered alone as a working woman, for most of the leading populace thought that work outside the home as a role for a woman was blasphemous. Such middle-class ideology made Laura extremely angry and she was determined to challenge this kind of thinking. There were women that had to work to survive and she was one of them. Softly sighing, she thought tiredly that it was the irony of an unwarranted elitist position for the bourgeoisie to take such a thoughtless approach to a very real breadwinning problem. Wealthy industrialists were utilizing the virtue of the domestic woman in the home to sanction the lower wages of all women workers. It ensured their poverty and at the same time this virtuous sanction allowed industry to succeed. The same ideology had spread itself into every form of work for women, including the arts. It made the very core of her frustration come to a rolling boil!

Laura wanted change! Daily she could feel a strong condemnation steadily building in her to this oppression of the Victorian outlook. Moving her tired body restlessly about on the chaise under the negative energy this frustration always instigated in her, she was determined to find a platform of communication for serious revolution. Loss of empowerment was a very familiar condition to Laura and she had sworn upon losing the tavern she would not allow herself or her family to exist long under such similar constraints. But, she could feel these real concerns closing in on her in spite of all her efforts and number of successes. It annoyed her to realize that no matter how hard she worked she had no control over her professional destiny. She was still at the whim of others and their ability to manipulate her economy. Only a few days ago she had discovered the deplorable condition of the theatre's financials. Her desire to learn all aspects of management had led her to such a confrontation with the Lyceum's monetary state. It would not be long, she had estimated, before the Mathews would be bankrupt. Then what would become of her!

It was a good thing she had decided to send out her own feelers. Hopefully a position in a new theatre would avail itself before her situation took on the aspects of a real crisis. As for the revolutionary change she was seeking, she thought with vehemence while dressing for the journey home, the theatre is the superior tool of communication I shall grasp and utilize as a respectable vehicle of influence! One day when I manage my own theatre, she thought with clear determination, I will be able to convince men of the attributes of the elegant, educated, and accomplished woman! All I need is to be pointed in just the right direction. Perhaps Mr. Wilton was right. It is time for a change.

# CHAPTER II

But mama, I don't want you to go. The ocean isn't like my bath water!" Emma Eliza wailed looking out at the Atlantic while tightly grasping her grandmother's hand. "It's too big!" she said stamping her small foot on the dock. Her mother looked more beautiful than she had ever seen her look before and she was feeling very possessive at the moment. As Laura advanced on her, she shook loose from her grandmother's hand and ran straight for the massive folds of her mother's dark green velvet traveling skirt. Grasping as much of the fabric as her tiny hands could manage, she pushed herself into its protection and suddenly her world was right again.

"There, there, muffet," Laura reached down and gently released each tight little fist from her skirt. Picking her up, she took Emma's round chin between her thumb and forefinger, encouraging the child to look at her. "Would you like to see how mummy's going to go across all that water?"

Emma was trying very hard not to cry as she searched her mother's beautiful face, peering at her through a veil attached to one of her most favorite hats in all the world. It was dark green on the top and soft black underneath, but what always so intrigued Emma was the black feathered bird nestled on the side with the upturned brim. She had decided long ago that the reason it didn't fly away was because it must be tied to the wide pleated ribbon that circled the hat. Taking her little index finger, she attempted to stick it through one of the many holes in her mother's veil in order to touch her cheek. Then Emma watched in awe as her mother's mouth spread into a broad smile, her large expressive honey colored _eyes_ lit up with love, and she suddenly found her finger pressed onto her lovely mouth.

"Well, sweets, do you want to see the ship?"

All Emma could do was shake her head in hesitant assent as she asked shyly, "Mama, will I be pretty like you when I'm big?"

"Prettier, muffet! Now watch where I point. See that wonderful ship. It's called the _Artie._ I'm going to get on that big ship with Mr. Wilton and go find us all a brand new home! You must tell mummy what kind of room to find for you."

"No! Don't want you to go!"

"Not even to find a friend for Petunia?" Laura coaxed, watching her daughter's little face going through several different emotions at once.

Emma had been telling her mother for months now that her little doll needed a friend. She couldn't let Petunia down, but it was a terribly difficult decision because she loved her mama more than anything in the whole world.

"Well, luv. What do you want me to do?"

Emma took one long look at her mother's beautiful questioning face. Biting her lower lip, she finally made her decision. "Put me down, mama," she said seriously. She couldn't let Petunia be lonely. Tilting her head back in order to look up at her mother, she said bravely, "You must find Pet a friend."

Laura's heart almost burst as she looked down into the solemn face of her daughter. "It may take me some time, Emma, but Petunia shall have her friend. When I find her, I'll write a letter to your Grandmother Jane, then you will get on a big ship too and come to me." She had to fight back her own tears as Emma turned away, her little back straight as a board, to walk and carefully retake the hand of her grandmother who had been holding her sister Clara.

Emma looked up at Clara, "Don't cry, Clara, mama's going to find Pet a friend."

Clara clapped her baby hands and giggled because she loved attention from her older sister.

"Thank you, mother, for caring for the children. I'll try very hard to send for you all as soon as I can," Laura said uneasily, kissing her mother's cheek and squeezing Clara. Kneeling down to Emma, she pressed a kiss on her serious little face. Emma simply reached up and pulled the veil back down over her face. With that final gesture, Laura knew her daughter had said goodbye.

"Have a good trip, daughter, and take care of yourself. Godspeed!" Jane spoke gruffly, feeling as if this was the hardest thing she had ever had to do. I've lost too many of those I love, she grieved, then prayed silently. Please, God, let her be safe for me. She watched grimly as Laura walked away.

"Goodbye, luvs. Until we're all together again," Laura called out to them all, momentarily turning back.

She whirled then and headed for the end of the gangplank where Mr. Wilton stood waiting to escort her aboard the Artie. Before taking his arm for assistance, she turned again and waved to the three lonely figures standing on the dock. Trying very hard to swallow the huge lump in her throat, Laura grasped Mr. Wilton's arm, gave him a trembling smile, and took the first step up the plank. To her surprise, he patted the back of her hand in empathy.

As the ship prepared to leave the dock, Laura stood on deck in the chilly weather. Her mother had not waited to see the ship depart and Laura understood why. This was really too hard for all of them. As the cold penetrated her thoughts, she tried to bravely fend off her fears. So much could go wrong, she shuddered, I must be crazy thinking I can do this. Terrible doubts assailed her in that moment of departure and she almost put voice to them by demanding to leave the ship, but then a smaller voice inside offered the reassurance she so needed. James Wallack was waiting for her on the other side of the Atlantic. He had sent word through Wilton about how immensely pleased he was with the selection of his company and given detailed description of his plush new theatre in New York. She had seen a daguerreotype of her leading man, Lester, Wallack's son, and her courage began to return. She would do this, she declared emphatically as the shores of England began to disappear on the horizon, or die in the trying of it. There was Emma, Clara, and Jane to keep her strong and strong she would remain until she had them safe again with her. I'll provide for my family as my father did my own mother, she swore to herself, with a big house, servants, and education for the children. All of it, just as he would have done! To hell with Jules Michelot! To hell with the bourgeoisie that condemns the woman who works? Another cold shiver ran through her body and she was uncertain if it was the weather or her inner fear of taking on the very strict Victorian principles of respectable society.

The images of her reoccurring dream came pouring into her mind, weakening her new resolve and she grasped the ship's railing tightly. No! I swear by all that is holy I shall never never sell my body, nor will I ever let anyone use me solely for their own advantage. With God's help alone I will make this all work!

Laura saw Mr. Wilton heading her way out of the corner of her eye. As she turned to face him she realized the sun had totally disappeared beneath dark gray clouds and that he was struggling slightly to maintain his balance. It was then she became aware she had not been grasping the rail solely in determination. The ship's movements had begun to change with the ocean's increasing swells.

"Miss Keene," Wilton called out through the sound of the waves, "I really think you should leave the deck for your cabin. It appears we're in for a bit of weather."

Laura was grateful for the agent's aid, for by the time he made it to her side, the deck was truly beginning to pitch. When she reached her cabin, her cloak had become damp from the salt water spray. Removing her hat and shaking out her overgarment to dry, she was glad that Wallack had spared no expense in providing her with one of the more spacious accommodations on the Artie. The cabin had the capacity to spread out the wet garment without taking up all of her living space. Checking her hat out carefully, she was grateful that the little black bird had not come to any harm. That will please Emma, she thought in a wave of extreme missing.

• • •

The remainder of the journey on board ship went mostly without event. Laura learned to her surprise she was a very good sailor. The awful sickness that some of her theatre friends had so vividly described did not assail her and she spent the majority of the voyage getting to know those on board that shared her own good health. Wilton was a proper escort and managed to remain unobtrusively at her side, allowing her to mix and mingle as she chose with little intervention, except to offer sound advice regarding the intentions of certain men on board whose ideas became less than genuine. This occurred one evening in particular when an amateur phrenologist left his hands on her head a little too long.

Overall, the whole experience proved quite unique and exciting for Laura, who had never traveled long distances over water. She was especially taken in one particular late evening when a few of the American passengers that remained in the dining area had gathered around a small piano to sing the latest popular Stephen Foster song, _My Old Kentucky Home,_ to be quickly followed by _Oh! Susanna_ and _Camptown Races._ Someone then broke out in a strange little ditty called _The Blue Tail Fly,_ about which, Laura finally derived, was some kind of bug that left her wondering who Jim Crack Corn was and why no one cared if he did. But this carefree and often zany American music made her feel so warm and happy it didn't really matter if she completely understood it or not.

She also discovered most of these very open Americans to be quite different in their decorum and though she had little inclination toward a more relaxed style, she truly enjoyed their obvious freedom. Often she would find herself laughing spontaneously at some of their witticisms, the foundations of which came from a new culture she thought quite fascinating. More importantly, she was finding that they were not nearly as barbaric as she had feared or had been warned. By the time she reached New York Harbor, she had lost a great deal of her trepidations about these new people.

The morning she arrived in New York, she had arisen in her ship cabin early anticipating the view of the shoreline of this new country where she would be attempting to make her new home. She had carefully attended to her appearance and was pleased with the new flush of her complexion. The walks she had taken on deck and the fresh ocean air had done wonders to add a natural blush to her fair skin. Once again Emma's favorite hat was protecting her lush chestnut hair and her cinnamon cloak, previously dried, was swept around her forest velvet traveling gown.

As Mr. Wilton aided her down the gangplank, Laura was highly pleased with the fashionable brougham awaiting her dockside. The elegant boxlike coach could hold four passengers and was pulled by a beautiful matched set of bay mares. Glad to leave the noisy dockside for the safety of its interior, she settled herself on the seat of its plush upholstery. Mr. Wilton climbed in and seated himself across from her. As they waited for their luggage to be loaded, he explained that she would be staying in a hotel walking distance from the theatre. If it turns out to be of the same quality as the brougham, Laura thought happily, I shall be in for a real treat.

She was not to be disappointed. Mr. Wilton had finally departed upon seeing that she was safely checked into her the hotel. Instead of being placed into a single small room, Mr. Wallack had provided Laura with a suite. As the hotel manager closed the door behind her, Laura found herself in an elegant little parlor, whereupon she discovered her first script placed beneath a tall crystal vase containing a beautiful bouquet of long stemmed red roses. Feeling somewhat overwhelmed after a full inspection of her hotel accommodations, she picked up the script and read, _The Will,_ by Frederick Reynolds. A note attached from Mr. Wallack explained she was to memorize the part of Albina Mandeville. Goodness, he doesn't waste any time, Laura thought apprehensively thumbing through the play. Something slipped out of the manuscript and slid down her skirts to the floor. She nervously stooped to pick it up. Upon inspection of the small envelope, it proved to be tickets to the play _The Way to Get Married,_ now being performed at Wallack's theatre. It included a personal note from James requesting that attendance would be desirable only if she was rested enough from her long journey.

The note placed near the roses, she excitedly sat down on the settee in the sitting room and began to read the script. Laura had yet to remove her cloak and hat. By the time she had finished the final lines of the last scene, a mischievous little smile stole over her face. How absolutely exciting, she grinned in sheer pleasure. Her first role on the New York stage was to be a breeches part. Wouldn't Madame Vestris be envious! The character Albina turned out to be a cheeky young woman that was destined to steal the hearts of the men in the theatre audience! James Wallack, Laura thought in grand anticipation, you are a ruddy business genius!

It wasn't until she tried to stand later and found that her feet had manipulated themselves onto her cloak, she realized she hadn't bothered to remove it or her hat. She did so hastily in a state of great excitement and high elation. I can't wait for rehearsals, she conceded without hesitation while trying to decide where to put away the things in her trunk. Laura hadn't brought much with her, therefore what she did have must receive good care. While emptying her trunks into the drawers and closet, the script was never far from her fingertips. Before she lay her weary head on the pillow that night, the great majority of her lines were tucked neatly into her memory.

Next morning, as she stood with touseled hair in her corset and pantalets, nibbling at a bit of breakfast, she practiced her part. As she successfully spoke the last line, a sigh of satisfaction left her lips. Running her hands with assurance down the sides of her trim body and taking a gander at her shapely legs, she was determined more than ever to bring New York to its feet. She had heard that James Wallack was a handsome man with a reputation for being extremely patient and gentle with the members of his company. I think I'm really looking forward to this, she realized somewhat to her amazement.

When she had finished the last touches of her toilette at a little before the noon meal, she piled her long locks haphazardly on top of her head, then efficiently stuffed them under a bonnet. Tying the bonnet securely while looking out the window to the bustling street below, she decided it was high time she did get to know New York. Yesterday before leaving, Mr. Wilton had promised to come by and take her on a tour. When he'd mentioned this she had inwardly groaned from exhaustion, but it was amazing what a good night of sleep had done for her. It certainly hadn't hurt her pride any either to discover the clever role James Wallack had chosen for her first performance. Somewhat breathless with anticipation, Laura left her hotel room for the elegant lobby below, but not before first sticking her nose deeply into one of Wallack's red roses.

• • •

"Tell me now, missy, you wouldn't be the famous Laura Keene we've all been dying to get a peek at now would you?"

Laura thought she'd managed to slip into the back of the theatre completely unnoticed. But here was this Irish St. Nicholas with the merriest eyes she had ever seen who had managed to discover her in the back of Wallack's lyceum. She had felt quite certain she'd found the darkest corner. But apparently not, for here stood this magical man right in the aisle beside her, leaning over the seat in front of where she sat to check her out. She didn't know whether to laugh or scold him for being so noisy. After all, a rehearsal was in full throe on stage.

"Shhh, Mr., uh..." Laura quickly placed her index fingers to her lips and pleaded silently with her doe eyes.

"John Brougham," the jolly rotund man whispered, jerking his mouth back and showing his teeth as if he had just committed the worst social faux pas.

His full mustache twitched comically, his eyes were filled with mirth, and Laura fell in love with him. "Please, Mr. John Brougham, I'm not really here. I just wanted to get a look-see before I'm actually here."

"Then it will be yourself, Miss Keene?" he whispered, gesturing for permission to take the seat next to her.

"Yes, sir. But you really must be quiet. Here, sit down now quickly." Laura commanded in return whisper with a grin. "How did you discover me?"

"Oh, it wasn't hard. You just think you're in the dark, Miss Keene. The moment you occupied this corner it began to glow."

"That's charmingly ridiculous, sir. I can tell you are incorrigible and have probably been from the cradle!"

"Shhh! You're much too sassy of a lass and a wee one you are too to be cause'n such a fuss!" John whispered loudly. "How can I be sure it is yourself?" he continued to ask with twinkling eyes.

"Because if I'm discovered, Mr. Brougham, you'll suffer the wrath of the spirit of Long Shanks himself! I'll see to it personally!" Laura quipped with mischief in her eyes. Then much to her horror John Brougham actually laughed out loud.

"Did we hit that line right then, John?" came a deep cultured resonant voice from on stage.

"Perfectly, Mr. Wallack, perfectly," Brougham answered matter-of-factly.

Laura held her breath, for the tall elegant man on stage had to be James Wallack. He indeed appeared handsome from where she sat. His immaculately trimmed hair and mustache were steel gray and his clothes impeccable. For a man his age, Laura quickly noted, he had remained as trim and youthful in appearance as a much younger man. He held himself in the posture of natural gentility that exhibited his Kemble training and moved about the stage with an easy grace. Suddenly he lifted his hands to shade his eyes as if looking a great distance. Laura knew what was coming next.

"Is there someone out there with you, John?" Wallack called out.

Laura placed a restraining hand on Broughams arm.

"Aye, but she's a wee bit of a mite and terribly shy," John called back. "Certainly not one for the theatre!"

"Oh, you! Please, Mr. Brougham!" Laura pleaded in a loud whisper.

Brougham removed her hand and took it in his own, pulling her to her feet and out into the aisle. "See what I mean, just a bit of a thing!"

For one long horrible minute Laura watched as James Wallack and the rest of the company on stage strained their eyes to see, all the while Brougham held her in place with twinkling eyes. "Long Shanks will it be lassie?" he whispered out of the side of his mouth, almost choking on another laugh.

"I'll order him to have you drawn and quartered for this, sir!" Laura said through a nervous giggle. "It's Laura Keene, Mr. Wallack," she finally said out loud.

"Miss Keene!" Wallack called out with great enthusiasm. "How was the trip? Was your cabin satisfactory? Are you happy with the hotel?"

Laura stood somewhat mesmerized watching Wallack leave the stage and hurry toward where she and John Brougham stood. At the same time her _eyes_ went occasionally to the cast members and took in the fact that men and women alike had moved toward the front of the stage, with the exception of a very good looking man who kept his seat and was intently reading a letter.

"Are you rested, my dear?" James Wallack asked, taking her hand from Brougham and gently kissing its back.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Wallack. I couldn't have asked for more thoughtful care. My suite at the hotel is quite satisfactory and thank you kindly for the beautiful roses. It must have been troublesome to find them this late in the fall."

"I have my sources, Miss Keene, and it was no trouble I assure you. Ah, you are just as lovely as I remembered."

"As you remembered, sir?" Laura asked in astonishment.

"Mr. Wilton didn't inform you then as to where I first saw you?"

"No, Mr. Wallack, he did not."

"It was in London, my dear, at the Lyceum, under Madame Vestris, when you played Therese Michel in _A Chain of Events._ What a final scene that was. I'm sure it must have amazed the crowd at each and every performance."

"It even held me spellbound, Mr. Wallack, and I was part of it."

"All those flashing calcium flares, waving gauze, and silver-green paper! What an incredible effect!"

"Yes, Madame is very clever!" Laura said sincerely.

"I believe it was reported to have run sixty-one performances-- an unheard of accomplishment. Could it have been because of this tiny colleen, James?" Brougham asked in false seriousness.

"Mr. Wallack, I really must ask for a more formal introduction to this gentleman who insists upon _towelling_ me with his mouth!" Laura retorted in good humor without looking at Brougham.

Wallack threw back his head and his rich baritone laughter filled the lyceum. "I think you've at last met your match, John. Miss Keene, it is my privilege to introduce you to one of the greatest comic performers on the stage today, Mr. John Brougham. If he's not 'towelling' you, as you so aptly put it, you've not been accepted as worth your salt."

John hoisted an imaginary hat to Laura.

Laura turned with a rustle of skirts to Brougham. "Be sure and keep your shiners in your pocket, Mr. Wallack. Brougham has met more than his match!" Laura smiled, dropping a quick curtsey to Brougham and immediately turned back to Wallack.

"I can see you shall both become fast friends." Wallack said, lifting his eyebrows in amusement. "Miss Keene, allow me to introduce you to the rest of the cast." Extending his right arm to Laura, he gestured to the stage.

"It would be a pleasure, sir," Laura stated, taking his arm.

Half way to the front of the lyceum, Wallack leaned into her and said in a rich full whisper that made Laura tingle, "You are even more beautiful up close, Miss Keene. I am very pleased! Your great talent, of course, procedes you."

For Laura, Wallack couldn't have said anything more comforting. She felt immediately accepted by the most important person in the theatre and it was just what she needed to be relaxed enough to open the gates to her creativity. Still meeting the remainder of the cast brought on its usual trepidation and as Laura mounted the stage on Wallack's arm her heart began to hammer a little faster.

"Miss Keene, I would like for you to meet some of our illustrious cast. Charles Wallack, one of my sons who serves as a supporting actor and treasurer; our prompter, Mr. Phillips; Mr. and Mrs. Blake; Mrs. Stephens; Mrs. Brougham, John's wife, whom you just met, and over here in this chair, most likely reading a letter from an adoring theatre patron, is my other son, Lester."

Laura held her breath. Here was New York's theatre idol whose well known forte was standard and gentlemanly comedy. Would they be able to work together? She felt James Wallack pull away from her side to observe their initial reaction to one another. Suddenly she was exposed like a race horse being judged of its lineage. Lester had yet to put down his letter. This was not a good sign. Seconds passed and then he sighed an exasperated sigh, tossed the letter to one side and looked up. Laura found herself under the intense scrutiny of two of the most beautiful hazel eyes she had ever witnessed. His magnificent mane, and yes she could certainly call such a rich head of hair a mane, had fallen slightly forward and had separated, due to what she would later discover was his habit of running his long fingers through it in the attempt to make it behave. His mustache was no less subdued, yet somehow this unruliness suited his rakish appearance. Then he grinned a boyish charming grin and Laura relaxed. He stood and she found herself looking up at him.

"Laura Keene! My god, you're beautiful and just the right height!" he said stepping over in front of her and looking down into her upturned face. His voice was cultured and yet very American, the combination of which added to what made him so successful in the parts in which he excelled. "Welcome to Wallack's Theatre. I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

Laura wanted to suddenly sink into the floor. She was blushing and when this occurred there was no hiding it. In these moments she was certain that even the roots of her hair turned red.

James Wallack, however, ignored her complexion for he approved of the chemistry and smiled a broad satisfied smile. What was even more interesting to him was the fact that his son had remained very respectful, which Lester wasn't quite often when it came to actresses. We shall see some interesting performances between these two before we're through, he thought with delight. Perhaps I have at last found the competitive ensemble to wage against that pompous wiseacre William Burton!

• • •

Laura worked hard under Wallack's tutelage and with her natural skill, developed an exceptional expertise in the roles he demanded of her. She soon discovered he had an astute eye for detail and accuracy. He never left her pondering why he directed her to do something. He challenged her to study hard but his kindness never failed. It was no surprise when she became aware that she had developed a real crush on the elder Wallack. Rehearsing with John Brougham one afternoon, she told him that James' directing expertise was like that of Hackett and Charles Kean. Overhearing her, Lester smiled his appreciation of the compliment to his father. Much to Laura's chagrin, she found herself blushing again.

Fourteen short days from her arrival in New York, Laura opened at Wallack's. As James watched his son and Laura in the final rehearsal he was well pleased with what he saw. His positive observations proved out. Her debut was sensational. The New York critics wrote that her figure was perfection, her features classic, her manner aristocratic, her eyes and auburn hair glorious, and that she had a clear ringing voice. A voice that carried easily throughout the theatre to the pleasure of everyone's ears. The audiences, it seemed, were thrilled with the sweet English sound to her speech. Wallack praised her, Lester kept his respect for her, and the company became more and more aware they were indeed in the presence of a special talent. Laura attempted to ignore it all.

Five days later, she opened in another play. She immediately took control of the audience. For her it was like opening the floodgates to a capability she had grown to depend upon. She had come to the United States life-weary and afraid. Now, with all her soul she knew she had stolen the heart of New York. It had been no easy fete, but she had done it! She sat in her dressing room too tired to remove her makeup from the performance she had just given. A soft rap sounded on her dressing room door and she barely moved in acknowledgement.

"Enter," she called tiredly. It was James.

"You were superb out there tonight, Laura."

She smiled a tired little smile.

"You're exhausted, I can see." he said seating himself on a wooden stool he had brought with him. "I'd like to discuss this with you."

"I know what you're going to say, Mr. Wallack. It seems to be a pattern of mine. I always wear myself out on opening night. I hope it didn't show."

"Only at the end of the performance, my dear. As a professional observer, shall we say, I can only wisely suggest that you learn some manner in which to spread yourself out a little more even. But let's not dwell on it. It's only a tiny flaw."

"You're wise to bring it up. I know I need to work on it. I don't want it to escalate out of proportion so that I am entirely ineffective in a first performance." Laura sighed. It was a condition with which she had struggled before and knew James Wallack was right. Still, how did one keep from getting so excited over opening night? Even the audience was different on such an occasion. "Are we making any headway with your friend Burton?" she asked, wishing to change the subject.

"We're beginning to give him the run for his life, thanks to you and Lester. If this competition keeps up, New Yorkers will have the theatre season of their lives!" He studied her momentarily before going on. "I think Laura, I have at last come up with the _creme de la creme_ of roles for you. Are you familiar with Richard Brinsley Sheridan?"

"Of course, _The Rivals, A School for Scandal,..._ did I say them in chronological order? I believe The Rivals was his first play performed at the Covent in London in 1775. Then came _A School for..."_

"Goodness, what a mind! Even as tired as you are your memory is incredible. I shall have to remember your literary expertise," Wallack interrupted, wishing to save her tired voice. "It will come in most handy, my dear. At any rate, Laura, I want you to play the role of Lydia Languish in _The Rivals._ It would be very foolish of me if I wasn't aware by now that comedy of manners is the acting form in which you were born to excel." James drew his stool up close to her. Reaching out, he gently took her hand and drew it to his lips. "One thing I do know about you, Laura, you have a code of etiquette, do you not?"

Laura was too placed on alert to respond, so she merely nodded her head, but instinctively pulled her hand away.

James drew his stool even closer and retook her hand. "Wit in language is a crucial component in structuring the comedy of manners. I keep thinking about the way you verbally fence with John Brougham and how delightful it is to listen to, but it also demonstrates to me you have a quick intellect." He kissed her fingertips.

Laura's eyes opened wide. A familiar feeling of suffocation spread its subtle oppression over her and she cocked her head. Reaching over broadly with the other hand to abstract her fingers from James' mouth, she quipped, "Are we rehearsing? Because if we are, I want a raise... in pay that is." She stated the last boldly with flashing eyes and a tight little smile.

James threw back his head and laughed. "You see what I mean, my dear. You are a natural!"

Laura stood. "If you're trying to draw from me an interest, a clever imagination, and as much amusement as possible this evening, Mr. Wallack," she opened her eyes wide, "you are beating a dead horse. I'm exhausted!" She picked up the open fan on her vanity and whirled behind him, snapping it shut as she went. Rapping him lightly on the shoulder with the end of it, she quipped while leaning into his ear, "But if you have the script, I'll have Lydias lines in my head by tomorrow."

James stood, towering over her. His _eyes_ accessing her until her breath almost refused to come. Then suddenly taking her by the shoulders, he placed a light fatherly kiss on her forehead. "I'll see you have the script before you leave the theatre, Laura." He abruptly released her and walked to the door, then stopped, chuckling, "You're going to make me a rich man, Laura Keene." He left, closing the door lightly behind him.

Laura threw the fan at the wall with a crack. Men! she swore silently. Always stealing a woman's empowerment with their damnable insistence upon being physically dominant! Why can't they keep their distance! Why must a woman always need protection, while they go about freely! "Anna!" she almost screamed upon opening her dressing room door. She had already managed to undo the few tiny buttons that could be reached at the back neckline of the costume, but she needed the wardrobe mistress for the rest. Laura immediately became aware of her lack of caution in opening the door, for the backstage was filled with a group of tuxedoed men with top hats and shiny canes. They had turned in unison at the sound of her voice. What in bloody-hell are they all looking at, she wondered, and then noticed one side of her gown had slipped down over her shoulder. Giving them her most profound look of disdain she slammed her dressing room door, to the extreme pleasure of the men who immediately burst out in ribald laughter. "A pox on them all!" Laura swore loudly. "As soon as I can afford it, I'll get me a lady's maid, that is--if one can be had among these barbarians!"

On a day-to-day living existence, Laura had become even more aware that no woman was safe alone for any given length of time.

She had been putting off looking for a maid because she was trying to save every penny, but, she decided with great determination, she would seek out a woman who would also be her friend and companion. It was growing more and more obvious she could not afford to delay this attachment any longer. Her reputation and well-being depended upon it. Tomorrow she would try to find the time. She just hoped she had not waited too long.

Laura was unable to find a free minute in the weeks ahead. James was kind, but he was a taskmaster who drove her relentlessly forward. This would not have been possible had she not desired to master the comedy of manners craft herself. She was even more relentless. Verbal fencing as a real skill required quickness, agility, variety of stress rhythm, and pointing in the capabilities of an actress.

She knew it was her intellectual ability that would create the speed of the response, the display of fast verbal reflexes, and one's ability to speak lines rapidly. The words had to be distinct, that is if serious points were to be scored on stage. Therefore, lip and tongue agility and the use of a wide selection of head tones for correct emphasis were necessary to give the shape of the line, so that their rhythm would set the audience up to laugh at the right moment. This had to be achieved by timing and so Laura solicited Mrs. Brougham's aid in acting as her drama coach. Her husband was too busy, for he was going to be playing the role of Lucius O 'Trigger in _The Rivals._

"How's John doing with his part?" Laura asked absentmindedly. With Mrs. Brougham in tow, Laura had taken to the outside of the theatre for privacy. The day was warm and they had removed their shawls, putting up their parasols for comfort.

"Very well. 'Tis a part made for him."

"Aye." Laura answered in a perfect Irish brogue.

"Want to continue working or just sit for a spell." Mrs. Brougham was making her way toward a small wooden bench that was extended from the theatre building. She sat with a sigh and fanned herself with her free hand. "Right now a pitcher of lemonade would be perfect. Come sit here."

Laura laughed, but kept pacing. "My mind is too full to sit, Mrs. Brougham. I have to keep moving."

"You'll be wonderful as Lydia, you know. Your timing is excellent. I can tell that your own background and rearing have given you that effortless grace and ease of the physical manner needed." Mrs. Brougham stopped waving her hand and pulled a lace handkerchief from her cuff. Dabbing at her temples, she continued on. "You really don't need to polish that. You're such an elegant little thing."

Laura laughed self-consciously. She had grown to love both of the Broughams and because of the lack of time to find a companion, she depended more and more on them to temporarily fulfill this role. "Tell me, did John enjoy managing this theatre or was he sad to relinquish it to Mr. Wallack?"

"No. John's a good manager. He knew when to quit. He just misjudged the times and what the people were lookin' for. He simply put too much of his trust in short burlesques and farces. The man says he wants to manage again, though, but not for awhile," Mrs. Brougham tucked her hanky back into her sleeve, continuing to fan, "Mr. Wallack is taking the theatre down a glorious path, don't you think?"

"Oh my yes. He must be making a fortune at it," she said offhandedly, staring at the ground and wishing that her own fortune would come into fruition so she could send for her mother and children. She was unaware that a deep frown had taken control of her usually smooth brow.

"Come share the bench with me, luv. Tell me what's troublin' you.

Laura looked up startled. "Did I look troubled, Mrs. Brougham? I hope I didn't alarm you. It's really nothing." Laura moved to accept her offer to sit on the bench. "When the sun gets just a little more behind the theatre, we'll be in the shade. Goodness, it's certainly warm today. I'm feeling absolutely well done. How about you?"

"Why don't you take advantage of that fan you brought out here to practice with and fan us both." Mrs. Brougham chuckled, changing the direction of things, knowing what a private person Laura could be. "Maybe what we need is a short rest from it all."

Taking a seat beside Mrs. Brougham, Laura spread the fan easily with one hand and began to move the air about them. "Ah, that does make it better doesn't it?"

"It surely does!" Mrs. Brougham sighed.

"The only problem being when you stop!" they both laughed while speaking in unison, then settled back on the bench to enjoy themselves.

A few moments later Mrs. Brougham broke the silence, "You know, Laura, you're good for James Wallack."

"What do you mean?" Laura was suddenly on the alert.

"Now, don't ruffle your feathers little lady. I just meant you may be responsible for a small miracle."

"Now I'm truly puzzled. Whatever makes you say that?" Laura forgot to fan.

"Well, I'll tell you if you keep that thing movin'." Mrs. Brougham grinned. "Seems James has been talking off and on about returning to the stage."

The fan definitely began to move again. "Back to the stage. To do what?" Laura asked feeling very nervous.

"To play opposite you, of course. Seems he's been bantering about the notion of playing Benedick to your Beatrice. Now what do you think of that?"

Laura grinned mischievously. "I would say that it is really..."

"Much ado about nothing?" Mrs. Brougham laughed.

"Blimey! You're as bad as your husband aren't you!" Laura giggled, then drew the fan into the width of her face and while peering over it with her expressive eyes, blinked several times in amused query.

"No more practice needed for you, missy. You've got the use of that feminine instrument down pat!" Mrs. Brougham assured her. "Ah, at last the sun is just where we want it. Now if I still have my sense of timing, the call boy will stick his head out that door and tell us its time to get ready for this evening's performance." She had no more than finished her supposition when the call boy did in fact lean out the theatre door.

• • •

Sure enough, as Mrs. Brougham had predicted, in the weeks that followed, James Wallack and Laura played against one another in Shakespeare's _Much Ado About Nothing._ The press lauded their performance as brilliant and the sixty-one year old manager, still very much a dashing leading man, once again took the stage by storm. So pleased was Wallack by the experience that he granted Laura her first benefit performance in November. She had been in New York a little over a month and looked forward to the extra money this would bring her. James arranged for her to play the comedic role of Mrs. Chillingtone in _A Morning Call._

To Laura's surprise, Lester agreed to perform with her. She could not have been more pleased. His antics as Sir Edward Ardent were well known to the New York audiences assuring the success of her benefit. Their performance that night would be well remembered in the years to come. Laura made a delightful game of Lester by forcing him to crawl about the stage on all fours and throwing her shawl over him like a horse blanket. The display of this brilliant comedic compliment to one another announced to the audience that there would be even more fun to be had from the two in following productions. At last the formula for the success of Wallack's Theatre was truly in place: Lester the dashing, handsome, romantic leading man with beautiful Laura as the object of his affections. All that was needed was another vehicle for Lester to woo and win Laura. James Wallack didn't miss his cue. He next introduced Laura as Pauline in _The Lady of Lyons._ It caused the impossible to happen. It ran for two weeks straight without interruption which was an incredible fete. Never had two young people been so thoroughly exploited on the New York stage and James Wallack was taking full advantage of them both. His personal appearance became the epitome of a wealthy man and his son Lester was following quickly in his footsteps.

"You're an incredible hit, lassie!" John Brougham bragged, handing Laura into her carriage one evening after the play.

"Well, what can you expect from a play that has everything in it, a murder, a duel, a thunderstorm, a robbery, a secret door, a subterranean cavern, an opportune arrival, several screams, sweet music and exceptional scenery!" she laughed as he closed the door.

"Here lassie, I've written something for you. I'm tellin' everyone to come to the Lyceum and pay _Keene,_ K-e-e-n-e , attention." John handed her his metrical summary of Pauline, then with a sudden rush of unexpected shyness, he waved the coachman on.

As the coach entered the boulevard traffic, Laura opened John's rather wrinkled paper to read its contents.

If you haven't yet been To visit Pauline, It's a presentation at Wallack's I mean., While Memory's green, Let me tell you the terrors of sweet Laura Keene-Fresh now in my mind--brought about by the heinous offenses of Lester,

Whose role is between, A dove and hawk, if you know what I mean; The most elegant scoundrel that ever was seen,

A Chesterfield cut-throat so aristocratical, Graciously rude, and indeed problematical, Pale and piratical,-Just such a "creature" as causes lymphatical, Boarding-school misses to feel quite ecstatical. Sweet tears filled her eyes as she carefully folded the paper and tucked it into her reticule.

John stood watching the coach until it disappeared around a corner. He didn't hear his wife come up behind him.

"She's a bundle of talent isn't she, luv?" Mrs. Brougham said softly, leaning her head into his broad shoulder.

"That she is and because of it there'll be trouble ahead. James Wallack is beatin' the crap out of Burton at the box office and it's not all his son's doin'. The men are comin' to see Laura Keene. James is rewardin' his son, but's he's overlookin' Laura. The lassie won't take it much longer. I can see it breakin' her will."

"I've noticed her unhappiness too, Mr. Brougham, and I'm thinkin' it's not for pretties she's wantin' more money. She doesn't talk much, but I'm feelin' underneath that cool facade is a little girl driven by a purpose of love."

To set up your completion of this Historical Journey push this Authors link or search for Vernanne Bryan online:  
Tangled in His Glory

# WHEN THE MORNING  
COMES IN HEAVEN

## A Novel Based on the  
Civil War Diaries of Sarah Morgan

### Vernanne Bryan

# PASSPORT

**_Dedicated to:_**  
**_Your_**  
**_Historical Adventure_**

**_Your Travel Visa_**  
**_" When The Morning Comes In Heaven"_**

# _ BOOK I _
# PROLOGUE

Sarah had missed the house on Church Street in Baton Rouge with its tall arched windows framed with bands of guilloche. She could shut her eyes at any moment and actually see the limestone hood molds with crocket finials, and the carved stone balconies on the upper floor. Now she had returned from New Orleans and would no longer have to tap her mental capacities for such a visualization. One of those delightful balconies was just off her own bedroom. As she left the carriage, Sarah automatically looked up at the balcony in happy anticipation that inside she would find her writing table, cozy corner, and four poster bed. It was a grand house belonging to her father, Judge Thomas Morgan, who was an important member of the community. It was he who had insisted that the windows be constructed of the elaborate dormer kind with stone pinnacles surrounding large sheets of plate glass. This beautiful home which had captured her heart was located not far from the Mississippi River. In the sultry summer months she could have those great windows opened wide in the attempt to summon any slightly cooler breeze that might come from off the Mississippi.

It was now, however, just after the new year, yet her thoughts were filled with those of the one that had passed. She would be twenty years old at the end of February and already she could sense that the world around her was rapidly changing. Up until that moment life had been filled with unclouded happiness, but then, everything had come to an agonizing halt. Eight months ago Harry, the brother she loved best of all, had been wounded in a duel at the Oaks in New Orleans. Now he was dead and at last she knew what it meant to grieve. The memory wrapped itself around her, ruining the joy she had felt at returning to Church Street. Breaking protocol, she brushed a tear away with her glove and squaring her shoulders, proceeded up the steps to the front entry. She must not let her mother see her unhappiness. Taking a deep breath, she saw the houseman through the etched panes of the door, then heard the brass knob turn, allowing her quiet entrance.

"Is mother resting, Gabriel?"

"Yes, Miss Sarah."

"Has she had tea?"

"No, Mam. She's a'waitin' foh you. S'pects you should go on up now."

"Thank you, Gabriel, I will."

Removing her cloak and handing it to the stately slave, she glanced briefly at her appearance in the hall mirror, pinched her cheeks to remove their pallor, then began a slow ascent up the stairway. She stopped at the first landing where a large curved seat in a bay window looked out over the street. Beneath that window a crowd had gathered at the gate the night Harry had died. She could still hear the awful heartbroken echo of her father's voice as he had answered the terrible question she had posed. "It's true," her father had said through tears.

How she had made it down the steps and out into the crowd, she still could not remember. She had simply found herself in the street looking for her sister Miriam. Shuddering slightly, she placed her hand against one of the square lights of the window as if to erase the reality of the vision. Someone that night had reached out to shush her and the indignity of the moment flooded through her. She had pushed their hand away and escaped into the night. No one had the right to smother her grief. Harry had been _her_ brother, the one she had loved best of all. That night with all its horror had seemed to last forever.

Glancing up the stairs to the second floor, she sank down on the velvet cushions in the window seat. Would she find her mother's misery as deep as ever?

_James Sparks killed my Harry,_ she thought fiercely. _According to Dr. Day, the duel was fought with shot guns loaded with balls fired at a distance of thirty paces._ She looked around at the quiet house. _Dear God, had Harry ever lived? It must be a dream, all those sweet happy days. A fancy of my own brain. No one knows how I have suffered and I 'll never let it show. Mother doesn't think I can live without him. I will though. His love still sustains me._

She stood then, brushing out her skirts, and took the first brave step up to the hallway leading to her widowed mother's suite of rooms. Her daddy had been the next to die and was now resting alongside Harry. But, with God in heaven, and the brothers she still had on earth, she would be grateful and not think about the prospect of being left utterly helpless.

# CHAPTER I

"Mattie!" Sarah giggled as she ran into the guest room and plopped herself on the end of her friend's bed. "In three more days you shall be a bride! Tell me how you're feeling now that it's so close. Are you scared? Excited? Resolved? What?"

"Well, Sarah Morgan, I do love Jimmy and that shall make all the difference!" Mattie said flatly while propping up the pillows behind her so she could see better. "Are you ever going to marry, Sarah? You've left broken hearts everywhere you go."

"Oh, pooh! No one has seriously asked me to marry," Sarah grinned.

"That's because you won't let anyone ask for your hand. You always discourage them terribly in the end and they finally run away."

"Better that then end up spending the rest of your life with someone you can't bear. Do you think that you shall be able to bear James all of your life?"

"Sarah! What a question to be asking Mattie!" Miriam said as she came into the room, then hastened to join Sarah on the end of the bed. "Mattie, you shall be such a beautiful bride. I can hardly wait to see your gown."

"Miriam will be married long before I, won't you sister dear?" Sarah teased. "Now her beaus are truly smart to pick on _her_ for a wife."

Mattie and Miriam burst into fits of laughter much to Sarah's annoyance.

"Don't be peeved, Sarah. Without the way you look at life, things would be terribly dull. Promise you'll never change?" Mattie coaxed with twinkling mirth still in her eyes.

"Well, since you all get such fun out of me," Sarah retorted, slipping from the bed to take a carefree whirl that billowed her full skirts, "I shall continue to be this careless happy child who dances through life, loving God's whole world too much to love any particular one, that is outside my own family." She suddenly stopped and turned, "What do you think secession will do to our world. Will the war go on forever and what will happen to all our friends in the U.S. Army that were stationed at the Arsenal?"

"They have been replaced by lovelier ones from the Louisiana militia, dearest heart. Jimmy's talking about enlisting in the Louisiana Heavy Artillery. Don't you think he will look handsome in his uniform?" Mattie gushed.

"Dashing!" agreed Miriam

"Dashing," Sarah echoed, thinking how glad she was that Harry would not be here to endure all the changes going on around them. The Yankees had seized the Arsenal, even before the secession convention met, but some nice officers from Louisiana had been stationed there and they made lovely additions to their parties. Everyone got along famously. How could there ever be a long terrible war?

"What are you thinking about Sarah? You look so serious." Mattie asked.

"Oh, nothing really important. I was just remembering one odd little party in March and how "silly willy", you know who I mean, William McGimsey, made such a fool of himself and he had tried so hard to be agreeable, poor fellow."

Sarah whirled again, then sat quickly so that her skirts flared about her.

"Are you going to leave us hanging in suspense or are you going to tell all." Miriam begged.

"Well...." Sarah blushed. "A lady really shouldn't,

especially since he was so obedient to my commands."

"Oh come, Sarah, our lips are sealed." Mattie begged.

"I suppose I should have liked him, but he just talked on and on and I finally said, 'Say something new; something funny' because I was tired of the subject on which he had been expatiating all evening. Unfortunately I had taken a long ride with him before sunset, then he escorted me to Mrs. Brunot's and remained glued to my side and I really wasn't interested in his conversation. Then he commenced telling me about somebody who _knocked his shins_ against something else. I only heard parts of it I was so bored and to my discredit, I showed it."

"You didn't!" Mattie laughed.

"I did! In fact I turned slightly and looked at him with all the contempt in my heart, curled my lip for an instance, then looked him straight in the eye, for I knew he could read what I was feeling!"

Miriam looked at Mattie and just shook her head.

"I thought if one fold of my dress had touched him then, I _know_ I should have hated him! Wither, wither, wilt!" Sarah exclaimed in disdain.

"Oh Sarah! What did he do?" Miriam asked, her eyes aghast with disbelief.

"Well, he caught my expression and how he did shrink, knowing all along he had forfeited my good opinion and he stopped with an embarrassed laugh."

"Goodness, did you feel any remorse at all by treating him so?" Miriam queried.

Sarah grinned. "My vengeance stopped at the instant he felt it and I tried very hard to make him like himself again--oh dear, this has been so mean of me to tell it."

"That's alright, Sarah. We did coax it out of you. It's just going to take someone extremely exceptional and strong to capture your heart," Mattie consoled.

A concerned Sarah looked up at her friend in relief. "I think you are right. I also think I shall not find him in Baton Rouge. There are no boys here like the Morgan boys--with the exclusion of your Jimmy, of course, Mattie. Why are not the rest of the men as good, noble and true as they?"

"You are indeed the most fortunate of women to be surrounded by such wonderful brothers." Mattie agreed heartily, not feeling the least bit disloyal to her betrothed.

"Courage is what women admire above all things. Harry was courageous. It was stamped on every line on his face that all might see he was a man that did not know fear. Months after he died when our brother Jimmy passed a group of gentlemen in New Orleans, he heard them mention Harry's name, and one said, 'I saw him when he stood up, and I saw him fall, and I never saw as brave a man.' Another responded, 'That is the way with all the men of that family; they are as brave as can be, and those girls are not an inch behind them' returned another."

Mattie put her arm around Miriam whose eyes had sprung with tears as Sarah talked on with love shining in her own.

"No! There never was a braver man than Harry. New Orleans rung with the story of his death." Suddenly Sarah frowned. "Men talked of his coolness, and applauded his bravery, while his broken hearted mother and sisters wept over him at home. Ah! Men admire everything that ends in breaking a woman's heart!" Sarah sighed.

"Yes." Mattie agreed soberly. "I think Jimmy is actually chafing to go to war. Did you see that old cartoon in the Vanity Fair? In it Mrs. Columbia and Uncle Sam are trying to mend the map at the Mason Dixon line. I don't know why they called it a cartoon, except it was rendered as such. It certainly wasn't funny."

"And it certainly isn't possible any longer since we all followed South Carolina and elected Jefferson Davis as our president. Mr. Davis was in even before Mr. Lincoln took office. It seems strange to no longer be part of the United States. Sometimes I think its wonderful and sometimes I think its so sad." Miriam said, wiping the tears from her face with a lace handkerchief.

"Well, if Mr. Lincoln keeps his promise, we shall not remain a new nation for long." Sarah added adamantly. "Harry lived to hear what happened at Fort Sumter and I know it concerned him greatly. He said that the Union and the Confederacy entered the war equal in every respect, but he worried that it wouldn't stay that way for long."

Suddenly the room grew silent with each young woman carrying her own thoughts of the difficulties at hand and what they would mean in a world that was changing on a daily basis. Sarah was the first to notice the gloomy pall that had come over them. She quickly jumped up and picked up a hair brush, tossing it in Mattie's unsuspecting lap.

"Enough of politics and talk of war! Mattie is only going to be a single woman for a few more days and we have lots of shopping to do! Get up you slugabed and brush out your long hair, for you shall not be able to wear it down about your shoulders much longer. Very soon you will be a young matron!" Sarah announced grandly, pulling the quilt off of Mattie and yanking at one bare foot until she squealed.

• • •

Finally the ultimate extension of a little imagined hardship for Sarah and her family began to spin its ominous web. It also spelled disaster for the Confederacy in the West. The plans for Shiloh had taken most of the troops, stripping the Gulf ports of needed men. Convinced that the victorious Union forces would advance from the landward side down the Mississippi to capture the great seaport of New Orleans, the naval squadron was ordered to stay at Memphis rather than return to New Orleans. This was a strategic mistake, for the Union had arranged for an attack on the city from the sea. Flag Officer David G. Farragut commanding the West Gulf Blockading Squadron undertook the mission. Meanwhile, Major General Benjamin F. Butler gathered fifteen thousand troops at Ship Island off the delta of the Mississippi, while Farragut's fleet bombarded Forts Jackson and St. Phillips simultaneously holding the mouth of the river for an entire week. Losing only one ship in the effort, the fleet destroyed both forts and sank the defending rebel squadron.

As Butler landed separately and marched overland to begin the occupation of this great Southern prize, the seaport of New Orleans, Farragut steamed upriver, taking Confederate ports as he went. Baton Rouge, Sarah's home, _(le baton rouge_ -- _the red stick)_ would fall shortly after New Orleans.

_Dearest Mattie, There is no word in the English language which can express the state in which we are all now, and have been for the last three days. Day before yesterday news came early in the morning of three of the enemy 's boats passing the forts, and then the excitement commenced, and increased so rapidly on hearing of the sinking of eight of our gunboats in the engagement, the capture of the forts, and last night, of the burning of the wharfs and cotton in New Orleans, while the Yankees were taking possession, that today the excitement has reached almost the crazy point. I believe that I am one of the most self possessed in my small circle of acquaintance, and yet I feel such a craving for news from Miriam, and mother and Jimmy, who are in New Orleans at this moment._

_Nothing can be heard positively, for every report except that our gunboats were sunk, and theirs coming up to New Orleans; has been contradicted, until we do not really know whether it is in their possession or not. We only know we had best be prepared for anything, so day before yesterday Lilly and I secured what little jewelry we had, that may yet be of value to us if we must run. I vow I will not move one step, unless forced away! I remain here, come what will._

_This morning I went to see the cotton burning, a sight which was never before presented to my view, and probably never will be again. Wagons and drays and everything that could be driven, or rolled along were to be seen in every direction loaded with the bales, and taking them a few squares back, to burn on the commons. Negroes were running around cutting them open, piling them up, and setting fire to them, all as busy as though they hoped to obtain their salvation by fooling the Yankees._

_Yesterday, Mr. Hutchinson and a Dr. Moffat stopped here to see me, but as I was not in, and they had but a moment to stay, they told their errand to Lilly. They wanted to tell me Jimmy was safe, that though he was sick in bed, he had sprung up and rushed to the wharf at the first tap of the alarm bell in New Orleans; but as nothing was to be done, he would probably be home with Mother and Miriam today_ -- _I have seen or heard nothing of them since, though. Jimmy 's ship, the McRae went to the bottom of the harbor, with the others; he did not know if any one had escaped. God be praised Jimmy was ill and not on her! The boat he was appointed to is not yet finished, so for now he is saved._

_Mr. Hutchinson was on his way further upriver, on some ship, going to join the others where the final battle on the Mississippi is to be fought, and had not time to sit down even; and I felt doubly thankful to him for his kindness, remembering that this was the very man Jimmy thrashed not a month ago on the McRae, and I was sorry I could not see him to thank him in person. Lilly was so excited that she gave him a letter I had written to deliver. Well! If the Yankees do get it, they will find only a crazy scrawl. Ah Mr. Yankee, if you had nothing in the world but your brothers, and their lives hanging on a thread, you would write crazy letters too! And if you want to know what an excited girl is capable of, call around, and I will show you the use of a small seven shooter, and large carving knife which vibrate between my belt, and pocket, always ready for use._

_I will try to write to you as often as possible, Mattie. I hope all is well with you and your Jimmy. Love, Sarah._

The day had begun on an incredible note for Sarah. Last night she had received a dispatch that New Orleans was under British protection, therefore it supposedly could not be bombarded. But, whether true or not, this also meant that the enemy gunboats were probably going to be paying Baton Rouge a visit this very morning. Attempting to be worry free, Sarah felt compelled to attend church, however, she could not seem to maintain the quiet composure necessary for worship and anxiously slipped away before the service was over. She had a strange sensation that she was needed at home.

When at last she arrived home, she found her older sister Lilly wild with excitement, picking up hastily what articles of clothing were necessary and preparing for instant flight.

"Sarah, thank God you are here! The Yankees have been sighted and the town is to be burned! We must run to the woods!" Lilly said breathlessly throwing garments about, then rushing around in circles trying to decide what to save of the family treasures.

"Never mind those, Lilly, just take what _you 'll_ be needing!" Sarah called over her shoulder as she hurried up to her room.

If the house was to burn she had to make up her mind to run. Tying her treasure bag about her waist as a bustle, she filled a sack with a few necessary trifles and a few unnecessary ones. She hadn't the heart to leave the prayer books her father had given his children. It was at that decisive moment, Lilly stood in the doorway.

"Are you ready, Sarah?"

"Let's see, I have the carving knife and pistol," Sarah responded while attempting to make a mental list.

"What's all that?" Lilly asked impatiently, pointing to a great deal of paper piled on Sarah's bed which was seemingly ready to ignite with matches lying on them.

"If the house must burn, I will make certain that so do these. I shall not leave my writings to the vast amusement of the Yankees!" Sarah stated with conviction.

Neither Lilly or Sarah knew at that moment they would wait all day into the late evening, for the Yankees who had still not come by sundown. The excitement died down then and Lilly tumbled in bed with a high fever as a consequence of her terror and exertions. Had Sarah not remained on the alert, she would have missed seeing Will Pinkney. She could not believe he was the same young gentle friend she had parted with months ago. His voice reached her softly through the night shadows before the gate.

"Will Pinkney, is that you?" she called, reaching for her pistol.

"Sarah Morgan--that you?" came a voice from the darkened street.

"Yes, Will, it's me."

He stepped into the light and Sarah immediately perceived he was not the Will Pinkney she had known before he left. He was so woebegone, subdued, care worn, and sad! _Where is the devil-may-care, hearty, laughing, mischief loving Will,_ Sarah thought as she attempted to study his face.

"O Will, I would rather never have seen you at all, than find you so changed!"

The makings of a smile suddenly lit Will's face.

"Now you quit that Sarah! You should be very glad to see me."

"Come up on the porch and talk to me Will," Sarah invited apprehensively, for his smile had died away and in the moments that followed she felt as if she was talking to Will's ghost. He sat so still and spoke so softly, she had to concentrate very hard to take in everything he was saying.

"I tried to hold one side of the river as the Yankees passed" he said sadly, "but I was forced to retreat with my men as our cartridges gave out. You see, General Lowell, who was in command in New Orleans, evacuated us before the arrival of the Federal troops and he neglected to issue us more cartridges. We had to pass through the swamps. Imagine, Sarah, wading seven miles and a half up to our waists in water to escape. When we finally got to the edge of the swamp and I realized I had made it, I simply passed out from exhaustion. Two of my men woke me up. I wish I had never opened my eyes, because when I did, I learned that out of the five hundred men I started out with, only one hundred reached the edge of the swamp with me."

He told this to Sarah in a quiet soul searching way, leaving her to guess at most of the other half of his story, while looking so broken that she thought her heart would burst.

"See my shoes, Sarah."

Sarah glanced down and saw a thick clumsy pair of shoes. Her head jerked up in surprise.

"Know where I got these?"

She responded to the negative.

"An old Negro pulled them off of his very own feet and gave them to me. He saw me come out of the swamp barefooted."

Tears began to fill Will's eyes as he looked away. Hoping to distract his grief by redirecting his thoughts, Sarah asked, "How did you get here, Will?"

"When we finally reached the Lafourche River, I seized a boat and landed here last night. I brought my wife and child with me."

"Oh Will! Where are they? I must go to them," she said compassionately.

"No Sarah. You can't do that. She had to run off just as she was. I'm getting a carriage and taking her to my grandfather's. Maybe when you are at Linwood you can call on them then at the hotel. I really shouldn't have stopped to talk to you, but it was just so good to see a familiar face." He stood slowly, taking the first weary step off the porch toward the gate.

Sarah rose and followed him. "What will happen to you now, Will?"

He turned in the night and a smile attempted to touch his lips. "I'm going to rejoin my men. We will march from Clinton to the Jackson railroad, then on to Corinth."

She watched him disappear into the night thinking that it would be a long journey for men so dispirited. "But they will conquer in the end," she said firmly to the darkness. _Beauregard 's army will increase rapidly at this rate,_ she thought, turning to go inside the house, _the whole country is aroused, and every man who owns a gun, and many who do not, are on the road to Corinth. We will conquer yet! Ah! Will! How I wish I could have seen the same merry, good old face I looked goodbye at, a year ago, instead of this sad, careworn one! I 'll never see Will Pinkney again_-- _Will that I liked, and who liked me so much; this is his ghost, for mine is dead. There is nothing to recall him, except the frank, cordial way in which he met me, and a shadow of a smile that died in an instant. When he comes back, and the war is over, I will see the same old Will again_ -- _only we will not meet again, I fear!_

# CHAPTER II

Will's visit left Sarah in troubled contemplation of her own emotions regarding the war. Just what was her place as a young woman, since war historically always seemed to be the province of men? Epic poets and writers of prose left her wanting for written material on those on the other side of the war so there was little for her to compare with her own feelings. She had suddenly become a spectator to the shock of seeing the place where she lived turned into a battleground, and thereby, a wasteland. Not only that, but she was now fatherless and her brothers and sisters' sentiments regarding the conflict were beginning to fragment what was once a solid happy family. Many of her female friends had helped to develop a political voice new to women by starting the temperance and abolitionist movements that had swept the nation. Those women, their voices often overlooked, had been just as responsible for the war as had the men who turned these female reformers' ideas into their own condition. It gave Sarah great pause when considering the consequences, and set her on a new kind of journey--the search for herself in all she was experiencing and in all she beheld.

• • •

The cozy corner in Sarah's room was a wonderful place in which to think, curl up, and compose her thoughts. The soul of the spring was just outside her window and for a few brief moments in the quiet of the early morning hours she allowed herself to be swept up into all the fantasies that season could coerce out of even the most stalwart of stoics. _My dear brother, Gibbes, once said of me that he believed there was no man on earth good enough, or smart enough, for me. What a delight to hear that from him! I never would have thought of such! I always believed that Harry and father did not think I was smart, but that I was_ -- _reasonable._ She lifted her head from the palm of her hand upon which her chin had been resting and sighed a deep and refreshing sigh. _Though I know it 's conceited of me, the way Harry spoke to me, the pride father took in me, and the way Miriam defers to my judgment, I cannot help but have feelings of self-elation. I was certain it was all a mistake and that I have been sailing under false colors, but,_ she thought smiling to herself, _I cannot help feeling an occasional sensation of pleasure at the mere thought of being considered something better than a fool, even though I myself was satisfied I was not, in reality. No, dearest Gibbes, I have just the sense enough to know I am a fool; so it is not because I consider myself wiser than others, that I don 't tumble in love and get married immediately; nor is it because I think I know my wicked sinful heart too well. Harry used to say he did not believe I ever sinned; but he did not know. Yet, it is pleasant to have one's brothers talk that way of you_-- _but it is also mortifying when you consider how little it is deserved._

She reached for a sheet of paper and pen. Dipping the pen absentmindedly several times into the ink well, she determined to write why it was that she had never fallen in love so that one day, should the need arise, she could fortify herself with this logic at a moment when logic could be easily dissuaded. Sort of a mental checklist to remember why she had yet to meet the man that she would be willing to acknowledge as her _lord and master._ The point of her writing utensil at last descended to meet paper.

_Unconfessed to myself, until very recently, I have dressed up an image in my heart, and have unconsciously worshiped it under the name of Beau Ideal. My lord and master must be someone I shall never have to blush for, or be ashamed to acknowledge; the one that, after God, I shall most venerate and respect; and as I cannot respect a fool, he must be intelligent. I place that first, for I consider it the chief qualification in man, just as I believe a pure heart is the chief beauty of a woman. Yes, and he must be smart enough for two; his brains must do duty for both, and supply all my deficiencies._ Sarah lifted her pen to the top of the page and printed the word _wonderful_ with an exclamation point at the end. _Now that is settled,_ she thought, _I hardly know what comes next; I place all other qualifications on a single level._

She scratched the itch on the end of her nose, looked briefly out the window, and began again with an energetic start. _Oh! I forgot amiability! That ranks immediately after intelligence; sometimes I am include to give it the precedence, for I am satisfied that no home is a happy now where it is not an inmate. He must be amiable enough to set me a good example, and philosophical enough to teach me to laugh at the petty annoyance of this life. I could be forever cheerful where I had a kind smile to meet mine; loving hearts and kind words are as necessary as the air I breathe, so my Master must be amiable. He must be brave as man can be; brave to madness, even. I would hate him if I saw him flinch for an instant while standing at the mouth of a loaded cannon. Let him die, if necessary; but as to a coward_ -- _I Merci! Jen en veux pas, I don 't want any of that! I am no coward; it does not run in our blood; so how could I respect a man who was one? O what unspeakable contempt I would feel for him!_

Her thoughts drove her to her feet and she contemplated how awful it would be to fall in love, then find out the man was a coward. Nothing could be worse! _He has to be a man of the world. I have mixed so little in society, have so great a distaste for it, and so much self-consciousness, uh, mauvaise honte, as the French would say, that I am by no means calculated to shire there;_ she decided pacing the floor, _but I would wish him to do so._

_Stop Sarah! Sit! Write this all down,_ she disciplined herself. She hurried to her chair and quickly jotted all she had just thought before proceeding on with her ideas.

_Of course, he must be entitled to it by birth and education; I could marry no other than a gentleman. I do not mean gentleman in the vulgar sense_ -- _handsome young fellow with well oiled hair, and even more impudence than pomatum; such a beauty, and so rich (although he may have been a shoe black when very young)_ -- _no; I mean gentleman in my signification of the term, which, to the qualities mentioned a while ago, adds principle as firm and immoveable_ -- _as the rock of Gibralter, a sense of honor as nice and delicate as a woman 's, and a noble, generous, pure heart. That is what I call a gentleman._

_Goodness! How many of my present friends answer to that description,_ Sarah asked herself to no avail. _But, there must be many such in this world,_ she thought trying to comfort herself with positive thinking--for to think otherwise was just simply too disappointing and painful. _Concession,_ she advised her pen.

_He may be as ugly as mud, and I will never think of it; the more ugly he is, the more intelligent he will be. Whoever saw a perfect face on man or woman that showed a spark of intellect. Then the uglier he is, the better he will be; handsome men care much more for their beauty than they do for their morals._ Sarah stared at the ceiling seeking wisdom from above, then finding that clear confident voice within her, proceeded to record, _I never saw a professional gambler, at least that I know of, but from what I have heard am inclined to believe they are all good looking._

_I would not wish him to be rich; "poor and content is rich enough" according to Shakespeare. I would like him to be just what I have been all my life, neither rich nor poor. I am satisfied that is the true secret of happiness. I repeat then, he must be au-fait in the ways of the world. There is a nameless something in the air, or man of a perfect gentleman which has a perfect fascination for me, though I cannot give it a name here. I shall always look for it though, and feel as though something was missing when I do not find it._

_Which means ninety-nine cases out of every hundred,_ Sarah thought with chagrin.

_Above all, he must have_ -- _a Profession! If he is rich and smash go the banks some fine morning, and Master is turned adrift on the tender mercies of the world, without the means to turn an honest penny, even if he had the inclination or energy, which most rich men do not_ --the words she wanted suddenly escaped her and she reached for her Bible. She knew exactly what she was looking for and turned to Luke 16:3 and finished her thought--" _He cannot work, to beg he is ashamed " so he quietly settles down, and goes to the dogs, not forgetting you, but insisting on your company for the first time in your married life. If he is poor, the Banks may fail without hurting him; his profession gives him a position until he can claim and sustain it by his own exertions; success crowns his efforts at last. Poverty, with such a person as I have described, is infinitely better than wealth in abundance, with a fool of a parvenue. I am satisfied that it is the life for me._

Suddenly Sarah put down her pen. She stood, catching a glimpse of herself in the gilded mirror over her vanity. Screwing up her nose momentarily in her assessment, she determined whether or not she liked what was reflected there. Petite at five feet four inches, a tiny waist, long auburn hair, and two large blue eyes surrounded by lush black lashes stared back at her. Naturally flushed high cheek bones, delicate rose petal lips and a well shaped nose, were supported by a determined jaw line and chin that reminded her of her father. It was a face to be taken seriously, she decided, even if it had received several reports of its feminine beauty. Glancing at the glazed cabinet in the cozy corner displaying her china just beneath silk canopy drapes, she shut her eyes and imagined the grand dinner party that would show the dishes off to perfection--that is, if it survived the war. That thought brought her crashing back to reality and she found the instant need to retreat back into the present motivation for her writing.

_Woe be to me, if I could feel superior to the man I would marry for an instant! Black misery would drape the rest of my young days, and settled despair grace my old ones. I need someone I would delight to acknowledge as the model of goodness and intellect on earth; someone to look up to and admire unfeignedly, someone to lead me upward, and teach me to be worthy of his regard. From what I have said, one of these days, looking back when I am an old maid, I will turn up my nose and say_ " _Why did you not say marry a teacher at once? Better marry a man and engage a teacher afterwards._ " _Merci, my old maid! Let me have my talk out while I am young! In a dozen years from now, perhaps it will be only reasonable for me to turn my nose at all such folly, fancy sketches, etc. Mais en attendant, let me have my fun out, will you?_

_I have described such a man as I firmly believe exists, such a one as I believe I should marry, if I expect to be happy. One that I could respect above all others; one, whose children (I may here say I have the greatest penchant for widowers and lawyers) I could bring up in the belief my mother taught hers, that their father was the greatest and best man in the world. When I meet such a man, then, 0 my darling brother Gibbes, I will tumble heels over head in love, and get married forthwith, even if I had to do the courting! Until then, Cupid spare my heart!_ " _Go thy way; when I have a more convenient season, I will send for thee!_ "

To set up your completion of this Historical Journey push this Authors link or search for Vernanne Bryan online:  
When the Morning Comes in Heaven

# THE SKULL OF SIDON

## A Mystery Surrounding an Ancient Supernatural Curse

### Vernanne Bryan

# PASSPORT

**_Dedicated to:_**  
**_Your_**  
**_Historical Adventure_**

**_Your Travel Visa_**  
**_" The Skull of Sidon"_**
_For:_

_Richard,_  
_my love, my life 's companion, my eternity;_  
_and to those of us who believe love_  
_has a power that is all its own._

# THE PROLOGUE

The profession of wealth in France from lesser to more between the Edict of Nantes (1598) and its Revocation (1685), the urbanization of life, the decrease of religious belief after the religious wars and the Jansenist disagreements, produced a nobility with a relaxation of morals symbolized by Louis XIV in the youth of his reign. Then the marriage of the King to Mme. De Maintenon in 1685, his change to monogamy and morality, and the depressing effect of military disasters drove Louis' court to reform at least on the surface. The self reforms of the clergy had for a generation checked the weakening of the Church. Those who were epicureans kept their revelry from the view of the public while freethinkers censored their own publications. But when the serious King, who had repented, was succeeded by the licentious overly tolerant Regent, these strictures soon disappeared and the long submerged resentment of suppressed instincts brought on a rash of irreligion and self-indulgence. The fashion of sophistication and freedom were based on immorality and Christianity went into a decline quite before Voltaire or the _Encyclop edie_ attacked it. The younger generation chose atheism, which at the time seemed much the safer route. For the nobility, the town gentry, those addicted to literature and art, and in the financial houses, morality appeared to be quite forgotten. The moral and ethical foundations of Christianity were remembered only for a Sunday social hour.

In this environment of debauchery, three philosophies were lost: materialism, believing that they could not perceive matter; spiritualism, for there was never to be perceived a spirit added to ideas; and immortality, for it was believed there was no mind to survive that transitory mental state. Therefore there was no freedom of will, for without a mind it was considered impossible. This dissolution of philosophies left one to trust animal faith and deflated all reason.

Thus the writing of _Advertisement_ revealed a Scottish philosopher and historian David Hume's confidence in his powers. He studied human nature in understanding and passions, and in a third volume, compiled a little later, morals and politics. He proceeded to analyze "impression" or _sensation,_ perception, memory, imagination, thought, reason, and belief. It was an investigation of how one comes to _know,_ fundamental for the credibility of science, philosophy, religion, and history, which depends upon the substance of nature, origin, and reliability of knowledge. _It is often a difficult study, for it must deal with abstract ideas rather than what is known to be concrete evidence. Human thought is the last element that thought seeks to understand._ Even Hume, waiting for a safer climate, cut from his manuscript the most noble of parts- _reasonings concerning miracles._

_How, therefore, if the mind was nothing but a pile of different perceptions lacking complexity, falsely endowed with the popular conception of a perfect simplicity and identity, believing the end to be total annihilation, could one possibly discover, or even trouble to care why another reality perceived so clearly from the past might possibly exist? The answer to this perplexing question was being seriously sought by a man experiencing such a complexity of a supernatural existence._

_A lonely knight a vow his allegiance did solemnly swear_  
_His pledge to brotherhood and to sacred chastity bear_  
_Thus to God and holy order fast he was promised bound_  
_To take no woman in kind his great desires to impound_

_It was his holy vow and charge to protect his brother knights To stand forever such a divine promise his for God and might But the brave knight in forbidden love was drawn to disobey In a guardian charge to keep this maiden safe he did stray_

_This beautiful lady was highly born, fair, and full of grace Lord Sidon alas was told met her death and placed in the grave This knight thus in grief for the dying years he could not face A heinous tale was spread that he defiled the body he so craved_

_Sought in controlled rage his young love his passion to release The damning rumors quickly spread that it was after she was dead Only the forbidden lovers decried that these awful lies must cease A strong son she did bear him after holy vows long taken instead_

_Legend traveled fast her lifeless form the knight held unsavory to his chest In nightmares of this calumny the Sidon knight was given little rest But in defensive protection of his lady a red and white flag Lord Sidon Opined Thereby on the banner atop a cross of thighbones a skull was bravely inclined_

_The Ghostly Promise: "This, my Lord, will hold the key to all your quests!_

_Take the skull and ride to battle with your mighty swords_  
_Raise the banner "Beau Seant!" hail to the Templar Lords_  
_While the flag still flies above us we shall heed the call_  
_Skull of Sidon 's power protect us, we shall never fall_

# THE 12th CENTURY

The King of Jerusalem, Baldwin V, was not quite nine years old when he died at Acre. It was a fate unkind to the Christians. The Regent Raymond and the Seneschal Joscelin were present at the death-bed. Needing to impress Raymond, the Seneschal anxiously persuaded him to go to Tiberias and invite the barons of the realm to meet him there for assurance of security from plots and to encourage adherence to the agreements made by Baldwin IV. He convinced the Regent that he himself would take the little royal coffin to Jerusalem for burial. Raymond unwittingly fell into the trap, riding off in good faith. Meanwhile, Joscelin dispatched the royal body to Jerusalem in charge of the Knights Templar. Too late, Raymond discovered he had been tricked.

The death of the young king made the truce between the Christians and the Moslems harder to maintain. It was hoped that the agreement with the Saracens would be successful until some great crusade would arrive from the West providing a securer future for the kingdom. Against the high court, Joscelin and the Constable Amalric placed Sibylla and his brother Guy on the Jerusalem throne. The country became polarized with those that pledged their allegiance and those that announced they could not swear fealty. The Templars closed the gates of Jerusalem and posted guards to prevent any attack from the barons who refused to pledge their support, then made arrangements for the coronation. Soon the country was divided into warring factions. It was not long before a renegade baron broke the truce by attacking a rich caravan from Egypt. News immediately reached Saladin of the outrage. When compensation for the offending action was ignored, the broken truce made war inevitable; a war which the divided country could ill afford.

Surprisingly and without warning, a Templar Knight came riding hard down the dusty road. He was disheveled and bleeding, shouting that Saladin's young son, al-Afdal, had sent a reconnaissance of seven thousand Mamelukes into Palestine with permission from one of the rebellious barons. They had returned with the fixed heads of Templar Knights on their lances. The massacre united the Christian kingdom once more. A timely unification because Saladin was known to be gathering a great army across the frontier in the Hauran. The Orders of the Hospital and the Temple were eager to avenge the massacre and brought all of the available knights together, leaving only small garrisons to defend the castles under their care. The Templars gave further aid in handing to the king their share of the money sent recently to the Orders by King Henry II in expiation of the murder of Thomas Becket. They had been told to save it for the Crusade which Henry had sworn to undertake, but the present need was too urgent.

Saladin was reviewing his troops at Ashtera in the Hauran. He personally commanded the center, his nephew Taki ed-Din the right wing and Kukburi the left. The Moslem army marched out in battle formation to Khisfin and on to the southern tip of the Sea of Galilee. Saladin waited there while he sent his scouts out to collect information about the Christian forces. Next he crossed the Jordan and encamped his army at Kafir Sebt, while his other troops attacked Tiberias. The town fell into their hands after an hour of fighting.

It was the middle of summer and the heat was intense. The Christian army believed the Moslems would have to retire. Saladin would not be able to maintain his forces for long in the parched country. In the meantime, it was hoped that reinforcements from Antioch would arrive. On a hot afternoon, the Christians encamped at Sephoria, an excellent site for the camp. There was ample water and good pasturage for the horses. Their army was nearly as large as Saladin's forces and they had the military advantage of the terrain.

That evening a messenger from the Countess of Tripoli arrived who was desperately holding out by the lake. With tears in their eyes, the sons begged that their mother should be rescued. Others followed in support. Quite suddenly Raymond rose dramatically in the midst of the crowd. Standing strongly before the knights, he tried to exhibit the folly of leaving their present advantageous position to make a hazardous march in the summer heat over the barren hillside. Tiberias was his City and the countess was his wife. But, he stated passionately, he would rather Tiberias and all inside the City were lost than that the kingdom should be destroyed. The council broke up at midnight, resolving to stay at Sephoria. But when the barons retired, the Grand Master of the Temple crept back into the royal tent and convinced Guy that it was shameful to let a city be lost that was only six leagues away. Feeling persuaded, Guy sent his heralds through the camp to announce that the army must march at dawn for Tiberias.

The morning was hot and airless. In the treeless terrain, it wasn't long before the troops and horses were suffering bitterly from thirst. The pace of the march began to slow. Moslem skirmishers continuously attacked both the vanguard and the rear. Arrows flew into their midst as the riders disappeared before any counter-attack could be arranged. When they reached the Horn of Hattin, the Templars sent word to the king that they could go no further. Exhausted, they stopped for the night, but the well around which they all gathered was dry. Upon hearing this news, Saladin could not restrain his joy. At last the right moment was at hand for him. He waited patiently with all his men in the verdant valley below.

The Christians passed the night in misery. Prayers and songs from the Moslem tents wafted up through the air. A few soldiers broke out of the camp to search desperately for water only to be killed by the enemy. In fiendish delight, the Moslems set fire to the dry brush on the hill. Hot smoke and ash poured over the camp, choking already parched throats and blinding the men's eyes. In the cover of darkness, Saladin stealthily moved his men up the slope. As the dawn light broke through, the royal army realized it was completely encircled. A chronicler would later pen that not even a cat could have slipped through Saladin' s net.

Soon after daybreak, the Moslem attack began. The Christian military had only one thought, _water._ Surging down the hill, they tried to break through enemy lines to reach the glistening lake below. Driven back up a hillock, they found themselves hemmed in by the flames and the enemy. At once most were killed while others were taken prisoner. The sight of them as they lay wounded and swollen-mouthed was so painful that five of Raymond's knights went to the Moslem leaders to beg that they might all be slain. Meanwhile, the mounted cavalry on the hill fought with superb skill, and desperate courage, driving charge-after-charge of Moslems back with losses. However, their own number was sadly dwindling. Their strength had begun to fail them.

At the king's request, and before it was too late, Raymond led his knights in an attempt to break through the Moslem lines. He charged boldly down the hill with all of his men to attack Taki ed-Din's regiment. Taki simply opened up his ranks to let the men through and closed up again behind them. Miserably, they could not make their way back to their comrades and so they left the battlefield to head for Tripoli. There was no hope left for the Christians, but they still fought on, retreating up the hill to the Horns. The king's red tent was hastily moved to the summit; his knights gathering protectively around him.

Time-after-time Saladin's young son, al-Afdal, witnessing his first major battle at his father's side, was certain they had defeated the Franks. He could not help but respect the Christian knights as they drove the Moslems back upon his father. Over-and-over he would cry out in excitement, "We have routed them." Only to see his men falling back again. Finally his father warned him that the Franks would not be beaten as long as the Christian king's red tent remained mounted upon the hill. Strangely, at that very moment it was overturned. Then he watched his proud father dismount and bow down to the ground, giving thanks with tears of joy.

The Bishop of Acres had been killed. The Holy Cross which he had carried into battle was in the hands of an infidel. The dead horses of the Christian warriors were strewn over the hillside, some with their masters close by. When the victorious Moslems reached the hilltop, the knights and the king amongst them were lying on the ground, too weary to fight and no strength to hand their swords over in surrender. The Christian leaders were taken to a tent set up for the sultan on the battlefield.

Saladin received King Guy and his noblemen graciously. Seating the king next to him, he handed him a goblet of rose-water, iced with the snows of Hermon. Guy drank from it and handed the glass to the rebel baron who had raided the Egyptian caravan. By Arab laws of hospitality, to give food or drink to a prisoner meant that life would be spared. Saladin quickly told his interpreter to warn the king that he personally had not given that man drink. He then turned on the impious brigand and reminded him of his crimes, his treachery, his blasphemy, and his greed. When the man answered back arrogantly, Saladin took his sword and struck off his head.

Trembling, Guy thought his turn would come next. Saladin reassured him that a king does not kill a king; adding with fierceness that the man's perfidy and insolence had gone too far. He then gave orders that none of the lay barons were to be harmed, but he would not spare the knights of the Temple. To a band of fanatical Moslem _suf is_ he gave the task of slaying his Templar captives, leaving their bodies to the jackals and hyenas in the hot desert sun.

Christians of the East had suffered tremendous losses before-on the Horns of Hattin the greatest army that the kingdom had ever assembled was annihilated. Worst of all, the Holy Cross was now lost to them. The victor was lord of the whole Moslem world. With his enemies destroyed, it only remained for Saladin to take over the fortresses of the Holy Land. One-by-one he especially sought and wiped out the Templar castles. For the Moslems, he had at last avenged the humiliation of the First Christian Crusade.

But further south would be one city Saladin would not take. This omission would prove to be his greatest mistake. Refugee Christian barons would crowd into Tyre, the strongest city of the coast joined to the mainland only by a narrow sandy peninsula across which an extensive wall had been built. Had he continued with his siege, the wall would have easily crumbled.

Into the port of Tyre against a soft pink and gold sunset sailed the black silhouette of a single European ship containing a beautiful noblewoman. She was seeking a particular Knight Templar. Constantly informed that it was highly unlikely he would still be alive, her heart refused to give in.

And so the progression of the family history had read, leaving more to mystery and imagination throughout the centuries for those to come after, for it was not the Knight Templar that had been lost.

# CHAPTER I

## Eighteenth-Century France

A warm spring rain gently brushed itself on the mullioned windows of Chateau Destinee where preparations for a masked ball were well underway. Bushel baskets of multicolored flowers had been brought in from the expansive gardens contained in the mansion's extensive parks. A young maid was repeatedly sneezing and wiping away allergen tears running down her pale cheeks, inhibiting her progress as she tried to brush them away. From across the plush room, her mother placed an index finger urgently to her lips and shook her head in desperation. Hurrying toward her daughter, she ushered her out of the dining room toward the workroom off of the kitchens, setting her to finish trimming the wicks on the tapers for placement in the many silver candelabra. As the servant hurried back through the foyer to the living room, the brow of the major domo gathered into a scowl, his hawk-like eyes following her carefully as he sniffed audibly in disdain.

The ample bosom of the matronly housekeeper leaned into him conspiratorially. "I never did quite comprehend why His Grace had to staff this place with the subalterns he found during his campaigns abroad! It's small wonder we haven't all died of some dread foreign disease!"

Knowing the stiff elderly head man considered even her beneath him, the housekeeper didn't stay long enough for a retort. She'd made an excellent decision for the major domo was not about to have the staff discussing the Duke's decisions as if the domestic help had any say. Snapping his mouth closed as he watched the back of her disappear, he turned his experienced eye toward surveying the rooms for their acceptable condition. It was a task that had sent many of the household servants fleeing to their quarters in tears. But on a more positive note, his strict discipline of such social matters had made invitations to the Duchy greatly coveted as one of the grander European events. This afternoon, as he moved from room-to-room, he was uniquely pleased with all he beheld. Leaning briefly into the library, his brows drew sharply upward at the discovery of the Duke's morning coat tossed carelessly over a winged-back chair. Turning to peer further around the large oak door, he found a head of familiar wavy dark hair bent in studious repose over an easily recognizable large text. It was the family records book which was well endowed with elaborate drawings of family trees intermingled among extensive and tediously entered histories. The Duke was running his fingers in thwarted agitation through his thick locks.

"Uh-hm, Your Grace," he began, knowing full well he was interrupting. "Would you care for some strong spirits to allay your frustration?"

"Damn it, man! I never seem to get any farther with the riddle that perplexes me!"

Piercing gray-green eyes turned in his direction, causing him to readjust his single-breasted jacket and step back a pace or two. "I see, Your Grace. Still, would it not be beneficial to partake of your favorite whiskey while you indulge yourself in the problem?"

"Yes, yes, of course," he sighed and turned back to where his index finger had saved the page within the time frame of the family's participation in the Crusades. It was a period that strangely drew him like some strong magnet to the point that he often wondered if he was quite obsessed. He slammed the book shut and started to rise.

"Oh, please, Your Grace, stay where you are and allow me to serve you. Would you care for one of your favorite cheroots to attend the drink?" he asked, truly hoping the Duke would stay seated, for his six-foot-four-inch-frame towered seriously over him with such daunting good looks, it always made him feel like he never should have gotten out of bed in the morning.

"Very well," came the resigned response from the leather interior of his father's favorite stuffed chair. "Worthy -- worthy, worthy, worthy!" The word rang out and through his brain in tandem with the fingers through his hair. It had been his father's favorite admonition all the time he was raising him. Somehow he would find the clue to his family's mystery for it would explain so much of the unusual phenomena that had been visiting him in his dreams lately. A phenomena so real that when he awoke he felt as if he had actually lived it. But how could that be? There was no way humanly possible he could have had anything to do with the ancient Crusades! He shook himself away from such thoughts, deciding the dreams had to come from stories he'd heard all of his life, especially about a particular ancestor for whom he was considered a dead ringer.

Pierce closed the lid on the humidor, laying the slender cheroot on the silver tray alongside the whiskey and ashtray. The tall thin major domo straightened his tie and adjusted his vest slightly, glancing critically at his appearance reflected in the glass of the walnut cabinet door he had just closed. Originating from England, he had served the Duke's father as a young man, yet he was always surprised at the white hair on his own head and mustache beneath his nose. It was the stately nose in which he took great pride, for it added dignity to the high cheek bones of his face. Serious gray eyes, one of which was monocled, were almost hidden under bushy brows. Satisfied with himself and the arrangement of the contents on the tray, he headed down the long hall to the library with quick definite steps that belied his many years.

Before he could reach the library, however, the clanger on the front entry door became excessively activated, causing him to set the tray down and answer it. No sooner had he opened up the portal a crack than the tinkling laugh of an all too familiar young female voice was heard. Annabelle, at fourteen years, stood five feet tall to his six, but Pierce always felt as if he was greeting a much taller more mature person as her precocity was astonishing.

"I have talked Nanna into allowing me to play one game of chess," she grinned, and walked right by him. "Where is His Grace?"

"He's in the courtyard, my dear, and you know what that means!" Pierce attempted to dissuade.

"Armed to the teeth, is he?" Annabelle acknowledged, stopping dead in her tracks. "Drat! I had so wanted to try out my new strategy. Well, maybe some other time." The instance her sentence was finished, she was slamming out the front door as quickly as she had come.

Pierce removed his handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped away the light beads of perspiration Annabelle always instigated at the outer ridge of his hairline. He was muttering to himself as he entered the library with the tray. The Duke was still buried deep in his books.

"Pierce, have you any idea why in heaven's name my parents named me Brandon Alexander Reulle. Look here. In this record dating back to the twelfth century is my nemesis; a Frank who became a Knight Templar in the Holy Land. Furthermore, there is this thick line in black ink drawn under his name. Why? So far, it is all I have been able to discover about him and yet for some reason he was important enough to my mother and father to give me his name."

"Well, let me see now, I do recall something about that. The house staff and I will be taking some old furniture up to the attic tomorrow. If you like I can look at the old paintings I remember seeing up there. It's been awhile, my lord, but I do recall seeing one that looked an awfully lot like you, but at the time I quickly tucked the idea away. You were still in your nappies, you see." Pierce set the tray down on the side table by the Duke's chair and waited for his response while watching the expressions of various moods cross Brandon's face.

"Speaking of nappies, did I hear Annabelle's voice a few minutes ago?"

"Indeed you did, my lord, however, I discouraged her visit as I could see you were engrossed in your genealogy."

Brandon frowned momentarily, but then he decided Pierce's decision had been a considerate one. Perhaps he was too often involved with the past, but the dreams he was having were so real they left him frustrated and strangely puzzled. He also knew this made him pensive and withdrawn a great deal of the time. Even little Annabelle had noticed the change in him, as had most of his companions. When he glanced up, Pierce was still waiting patiently to light his cheroot.

He took up the slender cigar as anticipated and waited until Pierce had extended a light. He then amiably assured the major domo he could return to his duties regarding the ball after directing the groom to bring his horse around to the front courtyard at first light in the morning. "Thank you for being so steadfast, Pierce," he acknowledged, emitting a silver-blue cloud of smoke when his cigar had been lit. "It doesn't go unnoticed I assure you."

"Will you be gone long, Your Grace?" Pierce tried to sound unconcerned.

"Possibly. I haven't made up my mind yet," he said, turning back to the family records.

Pierce frowned and shook his head. He wished His Grace, would settle down, but then he was only twenty-six. _Oh well,_ he surmised, _Aristotle believed a man was not truly ready for the more domesticated life until he was at least_ . . . _thirty something, goodness, the exact age has completely deserted my mind! Heavens! I 'm certain it won't happen to the Duke at his present age,_ he felt assured as he glanced at Brandon momentarily, then quietly closed the library door.

• • •

The afternoon was sultry and warm. Brandon stretched his long legs in lazy comfort while his striking gray-green eyes contemplated opening the tall French doors to the small courtyard outside the library. This was his favorite room in all of the large country estate left to him by his parents. The high walls storing the documents of literary works were filled with multicolored books rising from floor to ceiling on polished oak shelves. It was a circular room with a dome overhead that held a majestic painting depicting humanity groping for knowledge represented by a beautiful woman clothed in a diaphanous gauze gown. This serious work of art often suited his mood, for had the woman been real, he too would have been reaching for her in order to find answers to the many questions that struck him in the course of a day. He looked up at her patient face with the sparkle of amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth. Since he had been a small boy, many times he'd stolen onto the rich burgundy velvet sofa in front of the fireplace and laid on his back in order to study the painting in detail. _Still to this very day,_ he thought, _I find the nature of man is an impenetrable mystery when one is enlightened by reason alone._ He sighed and put out his cheroot, the glass of spirits had already been quickly drained. Still hours before he must get ready for the ball, he found himself unexplainably restless. The French doors to the library had become too inviting to ignore, so he gave in to the impulse to quickly rise and step through them to the garden outside.

Brandon's gardens were one of his expansive responses to the fashionable worship of beauty. Nor had he been subtle in establishing the very thing that to him was the epitome of aesthetics in the smaller courtyard off of the library. Beauty had become a matter of tactile values for it was considered something pleasant to the touch as well as to behold. In the middle of the stone wall surrounding the courtyard's garden, he had established a copy of Raphael Donner's relief of Hagar in the Wilderness. It was cleverly converted into a real fountain pouring water into the well by which she stood. The exquisite marble medium had been formed smooth and cool to the touch, while the water was crystal clear and sparkling in the sunlight. Brandon had personally known the female model for the relief and ran an experienced hand down Hagar's posterior and long well hewed legs. Women challenged the gods for adoration. But as Brandon laughingly declared, he was only a mere mortal, content to freely condescend to such a challenge, taking delight in drawing out a woman's sensitivity through the sweet applications of the sensual.

Applications of the sensual. His dreams were filled with longings he had not known himself capable of feeling. Most of the women he met were of the aristocracy, raised by French mothers who maintained a cookie cutter formula for how this should be accomplished. It made the element of being pleasantly surprised almost nonexistent. But the woman who appeared consistently to him in his sleep was so real to him and such a constant source of surprise that when he awoke it was almost as if she had been real. For fear of repeating the awkwardness of his adolescence, he kept this incredible phenomena to himself. Somehow he had to resolve her appearance in his subconscious before he succumbed to some kind of madness. How could he possibly be able to see so clearly every detail of her face and physical being if in fact he had never met her. Her voice in itself was a seduction that called to his inner being in a most profound way. Brandon felt certain this was a woman that had been magnetically beautiful almost from her birth.

• • •

With Pierce overseeing all the festivities surrounding the ball, everything was represented as usual to perfection. Brandon stood idly with fluted glass of champagne in hand on the balcony outside the ballroom overlooking the gardens and the sea just beyond. Chateau Destinee was located on the Normandy English Channel coastline in the countryside miles to the north of Cherbourg. Directly across the Channel lay the Isle of Wight where his great grandmother had kept a summer villa. The Reuelle family had held vast estates all over Europe up until the crusades, when over half of those holdings had either been pledged toward less than successful ventures in the Holy Land or confiscated by the Pope. Fortunately, Brandon still had control over what was left, including the estates in England and Scotland. He looked longingly across the Channel. It would be months before he would be able to cross over to the island, maybe even years.

Moving restlessly along the balcony, he polished off his champagne, ignoring the easy loss of sobriety as the aftermath of quickly drinking it like water instead of the heady liquid it could so easily become. Engrossed in his own thoughts, he was totally unaware of the feminine eyes that watched him with great interest from the shadows created by the potted evergreens running along the walls at the back of the balcony. Had he been cognizant of her presence, they would have been the very familiar eyes of his mistress, Lady Elise, Annabelle's much older sister.

Upon her arrival, Elise had sought him out, wondering why he was not mixing with his guests and frowning at the possibility that he was once again brooding. Finding him now on the balcony resolved her premonition. She was inclined to reprimand him, except she was once more held in abeyance by his striking appearance, which never ceased to constrict her breathing. Everything about Brandon drew her magnetically toward him. He was masculine sensuality personified with his black hair, gray-green eyes, and tall well proportioned athletic body. She knew that body, now hidden in dark formal-wear and white ruffled shirt, intimately. When he turned and found her standing in the shadows, she felt her skin heat as his eyes narrowed slightly, perusing her appearance with a hint of possession and criticism. Unafraid of what he would find, she boldly withstood his critical gaze and presented him with her fuller look by moving into the light from the ballroom windows. Elise had deliberately chosen a gown that clearly displayed her voluptuous figure, an appearance she knew would draw Brandon. She was therefore surprised when he turned his back and proceeded to stare out into the night.

"You are really impossible, Brandon!" she steamed. "Why I even bother with you has always been a puzzlement to me when I could have a string of flattering admirers!"

She had hardly blinked when he moved quickly across the distance between them, crushing her against his chest while his lips bruised hers in an assault that clearly exposed just why he was all that interested her.

Holding her firmly positioned so that she was forced to look directly into his amused eyes, he said softly, "And now, mademoiselle, are you still so puzzled or would you like me to lift your skirts right here?"

Elise was annoyed with Brandon, but she wouldn't do anything to ruin her relationship with him. Seeing that he was darkly preoccupied of late, she was uncertain if he was bored with her. He had everything, yet everything seemed to have lost its savor, so she studied the art of entertaining him and became somewhat of a genius in the invention of pleasures that would make him laugh or at the very least smile. Most importantly, she wanted him totally dependent upon her, so she set about diverting him with dances, the latest comedies in the theatre, operas, concerts, supper parties, hunts, excursions to new places and with her own sharp wit. Tonight she had adorned her figure with the most costly of gown and gems. Her boudoir sparkled with expensive gifts from Brandon of toiletries made of crystal, silver, and gold, gowns of all fabrics, silk slippers, and any fur of her choice. It behooved her to keep him interested, so she looked straight into eyes that were bright with the hint of danger and held her lips inches from his own as she whispered her answer.

"Hold out your hand."

"Why?" he responded still keeping her in place."

"I have something for you," she coaxed.

"Which hand?"

"My left."

Brandon drew that hand behind her back and found the bit of silk she had palmed. He looked down at Elise with one dark brow raised in skepticism. "What?" he asked, releasing her slightly.

"My panties," she grinned.

He stepped back then and lifted them high into the air, gently brushing them across his face as he did. "Ah, so they are!" he stated emphatically, as if he had just judged the bouquet of a bottle of wine.

"Your Grace, please!" she pleaded in faux horror. "They are for your eyes only."

"I'll remember you said that," Brandon quipped with sarcasm, tucking the lingerie into his breast pocket. "What more could a man ask for but a woman who is always ready to accommodate his every desire. Until later, Elise." He turned in dismissal.

She watched his broad shoulders go through the open French doors to the ballroom with a look of distrust. She straightened her somewhat ruffled appearance and made her entrance. It was seconds before she was besieged with invitations to dance. While moving on the arm of an admirer to the dance floor, Elise caught Brandon watching her from across the ballroom. To her frustration, he reached in his breast pocket and twirled her lingerie around his index finger. She gave him her angriest scowl, but he only shook his head and laughed as he tucked her panties back out of sight.

"Playing with fire again, old man?" came the chortle of a very distinguished silver haired man in full military dress. "You can really pick them, Brandon! A neighbor no less and I bet you have absolutely no intention of marrying her!"

"Absolutely none. It's good you could come, Uncle Charles! How's the campaign going? Has Maillebois been able to dig General Broglie out of Bohemia?"

"They can't get past arguing over Maillebois's charge. Broglie believes that Maillebois was sent to gain a permanent foothold for the army in Bohemia, and Maillebois, on the contrary, believes his mission is to simply disengage the army of Broglie from its dangerous position and cover him with a retreat."

"Broglie ought to be put in charge. He must be really frustrated."

"It's only a temporary problem. But, hm, it looks like you are about to have a problem of your own. It appears the young lady is leaving with that attractive older gentleman. Has a mind of her own has she?" Brandon's uncle asked with a twinkle.

"It's what made her interesting at first, now she's just an aggravation," Brandon said under his breath, which made his uncle burst out in full blown amusement.

"Maybe you should waylay her before there are two many cooks in the pot?"

"I'm afraid it's too late for that. She's not worth fighting a duel for her honor and besides, she knows exactly what she's doing. Unfortunately, I no longer care."

"May I suggest you rid yourself of the silk flag you were waving earlier if you are not inclined to defend the mademoiselle. Her new partner may feel differently."

"You worry too much, Uncle Charles. I think I'll wait awhile longer to make certain she's really left."

"Yes, that might be prudent, especially if you have no interest in attending to her yourself."

"My dear Uncle, I have yet to meet the woman that needs my full attendance and when I do, you can be certain I will fulfill her every need. Come. Let's go to my library and have a brandy and you can give me the details on how the war goes as to who shall rule Hungary and Bohemia."

His uncle sighed and followed him out of the ballroom down the hall. "I'm afraid, Brandon, it's going to be a much longer war than France anticipated."

When Brandon swung opened the large oak doors leading to the library, a cheery fire was ablaze in the corner fireplace. One lamp with crystal droplets and large cabbage roses on its milk-glass shade had been lit on a small circular table near two rust toned velvet wingback chairs. The chairs had been placed comfortably on either side of the hearth. His uncle immediately sank into one of them and momentarily closed his eyes in pleasure.

"Your mother always knew how to make a room appealing. I do miss them both. Do you suppose they will ever come back from the colonies?"

"Not unless things go drastically wrong in their ventures there and so far nothing has. I haven't heard from them since father sent his barrister with papers giving me all of his holdings on this side of the world with detailed instructions on how to handle them. Unfortunately, they are extensive enough to keep me too preoccupied and busy to sail off for a visit."

"Well, thank God for small favors. I would really hate to see you go too! Losing my brother to that barbaric American country was enough without you disappearing too!" Brandon's uncle exclaimed in protest while stretching his Hessian boots before the fire. "Let's see now, it's been since last October that France pledged her military aid to Maria Theresa. It's a shame that Charles could not leave the Austrian throne to sons."

"Oh, I don't know - I think the daughter is worth fighting for, don't you. What a beautiful woman! Her husband, however, has shown little concern, or the capacity for that matter, in affairs of state. The entire burden of ruling has fallen on her fair shoulders." Brandon stated, seating himself across from his uncle.

"Fair shoulders? Come now, Brandon, how would you know whether or not she is fair?" his uncle chided.

"Because, sir, I have seen her, and she is truly lovely. It was from a short distance through a crowd of her courtiers, but she had all the grace of royalty." Brandon rested his strong hands on both arms of the high back chair in determined pursuit of his subject. With a distant look of pleasurable recall, he proceeded to expand on his knowledge of the Austrian queen. "Her features were exceedingly fine with brilliant blue eyes, hair the color of wheat, and when she walked about she had all the manners and movement of a true lady."

"You sound as if she had captured your heart."

"No. It's just simple admiration of all things beautiful," Brandon said through a wide sensuous grin.

"Of course, how silly of me!" his uncle chuckled, his gray eyes twinkling. "We French always fall for beauty, but in this case we have taken full advantage of Maria Theresa's weakness."

"Ah, but uncle, I think we shall live to regret that decision."

"I'm certain, we already do," he sighed in dismay. "She will probably surprise us all with a brilliant gift of diplomacy."

"Would that trouble you so much coming from a woman?"

"Frankly, it would ease my conscience to know that she is truly a worthy opponent. I loath France taking advantage just because of gender, and, mind you, Maria Theresa is also a woman fresh out of childbirth."

"That should make her even more formidable, that is, if humans follow the instincts of the animal kingdom! Whether she will prevail in the years ahead when she becomes empress is yet to be seen, but at the moment the queen appears to be handling her affairs in Austria very well for one so young. Perhaps, uncle, when all is said and done, it is our old enemy across the channel that will be our fiercest opponent."

"Very astute Brandon. We must always keep our eye on the little islands to the west. You especially, being so close to Cherbourg whose history from time-to-time had English rulers. I assume you still have most of your ships anchored there?"

"You would assume correctly. King Louis' provision of a commercial port has been quite lucrative for me and, of course, for him. But that is also the reason I never forget that though I have holdings in England, I must also keep myself apprised of her politics. Well, I must get back to my guests before it is determined that I am a very rude host. Will you be staying, uncle, or does duty call you?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it does. I leave for the front tomorrow morning early."

They stood and Brandon found himself under the stern scrutiny of the uncle that was more a father to him than his own.

"Take care of yourself, Brandon Alexander, not only because you are the future of the Ruelle family, but you are the closest thing to a son I shall ever have."

It was the familial affection that Brandon needed to hear. As he watched his uncle's immaculate and proud military form stride through the door, he had an uneasy premonition that he might not see him again. He almost called out, but knew the older man would not approve of such a display of emotion. Putting out his cheroot, he ran his fingers habitually through his hair and pondering momentarily his duties as host, headed for the ballroom. He was about to close the door when he heard a flustered commotion outside the library window.

Crossing the floor in a few long strides, he opened the double doors to the courtyard as his eyes quickly assessed the grounds outside. Just as he was about to determine nothing was amiss, he saw Annabelle dash around the far corner of the mansion toward the front driveway. He called out to her, but too late, for he knew she would be long gone by the time he made it to the entry. Shaking his head in amusement, he glanced at the chess pieces on the gaming table before withdrawing from the library and discovered the rearrangement of the ivory pieces that had originally been standing in their startup positions. Studying them further, he was amazed at the strong tactical thought processes that had initiated the calculated moves on both sides of the board. A wide grin spread over his face as he realized Annabelle must have been disturbed from her concentration just before he and his uncle had entered. _What an incredible mind for one so young,_ he mused, considering how endearing her tousled blonde head always appeared before him as she considered her next move. He wished he had been able to catch her, but once again his thoughts turned to his obligations as host. His orchestra was just beginning the opening measures of Jean Philippe Rameau's forbidden opera _Samson,_ an entertainment he had arranged for those who stayed late into the evening and were daring enough to enjoy it. Delighted with the prospect of not having to dance with the ladies of the nobility that pressed for his attention, he took a seat in the back of his theatre and closed his eyes in order to shut out any distractions that would disturb his ability to hear Rameau's music.

# CHAPTER II

Annabelle ran breathlessly across the parkway of Chateau Destinee, through the grain fields, frightening the horses grazing on a soft green knoll inside their pasture as she raced by. Finally, quite out of breath, she climbed the rock wall surrounding the Chateau Blanc, then hurried through the tall hedges outside the courtyard next to her chamber. Unfortunately she tore one of her best dresses as she did so. Reaching for the clasp on the wrought iron gate, she fell into immediate despair at the realization it was locked.

"Damn! Damn!" she swore under her breath while at the same time moving rapidly around the vine covered fence surrounding the courtyard looking for another entry. It was not to be found. Suppose she could scale the imposing enclosure; she would obviously be skewered by the pointed spears at its top. Anyway, it would certainly leave her poor dress in complete tatters if she had been able to manage such a fete. Unfortunately, Annabelle decided, she would once again have to go around to the kitchen and explain her unseemly condition while announcing her unannounced departure to the housekeeper, whom, she secretly swore, always knew exactly what she was doing. If it weren't so absolutely delicious, she wouldn't even try to conceal her _nefarious_ plans for adventure. Besides, no matter of danger would ever keep her from fleeing to the sanctuary of the Duke's gardens.

Her obvious dishevelment made her lose courage and change her direction toward the kitchens in order to head for the summerhouse next to the large lake they shared with Chateau Destinee. Without any thought of it being otherwise occupied she stormed through the door, but drew quickly up short upon seeing the two figures lying together in the dark between the sumptuous pillows surrounding the large sofa. Too late she discovered the scattered pieces of male and female apparel strewn about the floor and the fact that the occupants were absolutely nude. Immediately thereafter the door slammed shut, as was the accustomed reaction to her treatment of such. Then suddenly there was the awful followup of the bolting realization of her presence. Never in her young life had she ever seen adult humans scramble so awkwardly to find some manner of cover to rearrange their appearance. Without further thought, Annabelle compounded the difficult revelation of her discovery by giggling.

"Hell, Henry, it's only Annabelle!" Elise yelled furiously through her uncomely dishabille. "Good god, Annabelle, don't you ever enter a room without crashing through it like some dumb ox!"

Embarrassed beyond an intelligent response, Annabelle attempted a hasty retreat..

"Don't you dare leave you little brat! Stay right where you are until I'm dressed! From the looks of you, you're going to need some kind of an excuse for your atrocious behavior! For god's sake, cover yourself Henry. I'll be right back! You can help me get dressed, Annabelle, and quit looking at me like you've never seen me naked!" Elise grabbed Annabelle roughly by the arm, forcing her to pick up her clothes, chastising her for being clumsy and nervous.

As Elise never wore the undergarments of most ladies, it was not long before Annabelle had her looking as if she had just been gowned and coiffed.

Elise, now calm, turned and hugged Annabelle. "Stay here, sweets, and I'll find a way to get you back into your chamber before anyone knows you've been gone."

Annabelle managed a weak 'thanks', then found a conveniently placed chair across the dimly lit room; one in which she would not have to completely face poor Henry, who by that time had the pillows piled up to his neck. He gave her a highly annoyed look as she turned away to stare out the window across the darkened lake. She could see the lights still blazing from Chateau Destinee and wished with all her heart she was back there in the cozy library.

It seemed like an eternity before Elise returned, but when she did, Annabelle soon found out she was not alone. As her sister came through the door, a look of triumph was splattered across her face, for just behind her stood Sir Jeffroi and Lady Emmeline. Annabelle paled as she watched in dread silence the look of outrage pass over their faces. Anxious long moments of utter betrayal and deceit were read there which horribly turned into total degradation. She desperately searched Elise's face for some moment of recognition that the situation at hand would not be portrayed as it appeared and Elise would surely explain. But as the minutes passed, and she did not, it became all too clear to Annabelle that this was not Elise's intent. Annabelle sucked in her ragged breath under the onslaught of what was to be assigned as her own illicit predicament by the sister she had grown to trust. She stood, knocking over her chair and screamed her sister's name in mortification.

"Elise! No! You can't do this!"

"You see, mother, how the little slut has returned your love and affection! She has brought disgrace to us all! Look at her! Her gown torn and her hair a mess! She's probably lifted her skirts to even Duke Ruelle-not that he would entertain tumbling what he considers a mere child!" Elise added in haste, reconsidering the need to point her parents in that accusatory direction. She turned on the now shocked Henry and flung him a bone of support. "Not that this gentleman could possibly know she was anything but our scullery maid by her appearance."

Elise looked on with satisfaction as Lady Emmeline drew herself up into her full stature of condemnation. "I believe it's time, Sir Jeffroi, to acknowledge Annabelle's true relationship in this household and dispense with her now highly unlikely presence!"

She turned with fury in Annabelle's direction, who by that time had sunk back on the chair wishing for the nightmare to be over.

"My dear, you no longer belong to Chateau Blanc. You never did! You are not our child and certainly can no longer be considered as such! You have spit on the honor of our care for you and our name by your actions this night and I for one will not put up with a whore! But! We will not turn you out into the streets as you so deserve, that is, unless there is no other alternative. No, Sir Jeffroi has many contacts and he has promised to have you placed elsewhere before the end of the coming week! Until then, you are to remain in your chamber. Neither of us ever want to look again upon the face of the harlot you've become, especially one that has been unknowingly sheltered under our roof!"

"Elise?" Annabelle pleaded through her tears. She was instantly cut off by Lady Emmeline before she could utter another sound."

"How dare you try to blame Elise for your conduct! Sir Jeffroi, call the guards and remove this strumpet from my sight!" She turned and began sobbing into her husband's open arms.

The shocked man in the bed pressed his lips together in forced suppression under the clear realization of the magnitude of Lady Emmeline's growing distaste for the innocent young girl, and, unfortunately, the negative reflection on not only her good name, but his own particular character. He gave a sharp look of displeasure toward Elise, when no one else was looking, and opened his mouth to protest. However, she smiled cunningly back at him in a manner that suggested the promised fulfillment of what they had begun earlier. Desire reignited in Henry and he quickly determined to remain absolutely silent, though, he swore inwardly, it was truly hard to watch them take the now hysterical child away.

• • •

Annabelle watched the door close to her chamber in quiet desperation. Never in her entire young life had anyone made her feel so completely desolate. She sat shivering on the edge of her bed ringing her hands while every now and then reaching up to attempt to brush away a perpetual stream of tears that flowed down her cheeks. Her head was pounding in the same rhythm as her heart and it was certain that she was going to be sick. A shattering grief ripped through her adolescent body and the tremors became worse. Reaching out for one of the four posters of the bed was an instinctive reaction to the surety that somehow she was going to fly into a million pieces. In brave denial of this possibility, she stood on shaky legs, clinging to the idea that if she could somehow make it to the window seat it would be proof that she was still alright. If only she could control the sobs that denied her normal breath she could let go and start across the floor. But, her hand now had a death grip on the ornate wooden post just beneath the lace valance of the canopy.

_I cannot do this,_ came the agonized voice from within, _not when I 've lost everything. It's just too much to bear! I can't even begin to find a place to put it all in my mind. No one is who they seemed or said they were._ That thought raised her head and at the same moment her swollen eyes caught something familiar and bright in the distance. Releasing the post, Annabelle, moved woodenly to the window. Through the pane she could see the warm lights of Destinee flickering in the distance. _If only she could run away there!_ Of course, there was not even the slimmest of chances she could escape.

Turning away from the window, the hope to change the pattern of the evening had died. She was being forced to close the door to the wonders that lay across the fields in the moonlight. It slowly sank in as she lay down on her bed that visiting Destinee had been a useful and longed for escape from Chateau Blanc. Somehow her heart had known deep down that something was amiss long before she had been shocked by the truth or she wouldn't have found it so necessary to get away from what was obvious oppressions. Why had she been so blind to the abuses of her mother and sister; always making excuses, always blaming herself. But the biggest surprise was Sir Jeffroi whom she adored. He had always made life bearable and now he too had turned away. How could he believe that she was a slut? How could she have been so wrong about him? Was her whole life a lie?

Annabelle rolled over into a tight knot. The agonizing pain shot through her with each new discovery of betrayal. How would she manage to live with it? There had to be someplace inside her where she could go, still feel safe, and like someone worthwhile. At this very moment there wasn't even a glimmer of such a place or possibility of any self appreciation. When you didn't even know who you were or where you had come from and the likelihood of ever finding out held only shadowy distortions, how could you feel positive about life in the future?

• • •

Morning came all too soon with a hurried knock at Annabelle's door. With the continuing urgency of the noise, she sat up groggily, rubbing her swollen eyes, and realized in bleak despair she was still in her tattered dress. As there was nothing she could do to remedy the situation, it struck her that her appearance was of no consequence after all since she had been condemned to the role of harlot. The nagging unawareness of when she had shot the bolt on her door made for a grateful reprieve from having to answer it right away. That fact would give her at least time to run a brush through her hair.

It took much longer than she had anticipated as her blonde hair was thick with rebellious natural curls and waves that hung past her waist. Rarely did she ever sleep without some attempt to restrain it, but as she had not been attended by her maid, this lapse of circumstance left her quite to her own futile devices.

"Mademoiselle, please open your door. I have been ordered to get your clothes packed and _you_ ready to travel."

"I'll be there in a minute, Nanette. I didn't get much sleep last night and I'm rather slow this morning. But since it is only you, I shall open it now."

Annabelle opened the door slowly.

"Oh, mademoiselle, sacre bleu!" Nanette exclaimed in astonishment pushing the door completely open, then grabbing Annabelle's hand and leading her to the vanity mirror. "Just look at yourself. It will take me all day to get you ready!"

Annabelle pulled away. "Surely my appearance is of no importance. Didn't you know? I'm to be removed from the family like some smelly piece of offal," she said beneath the tears that were beginning to form as she sunk down on the side of the bed.

"Don't be absurd. Sir Jeffroi asked particularly that you be beautifully gowned and coiffed. Would he do that if he thought you repulsive? You certainly don't want to disappoint him, n'est-ce pas?"

"I guess not," Annabelle sighed.

"Don't be such a bebe! There is nothing awful or odorous about you. Besides, I've drawn you a nice bath. I'll do everything I can for you, mademoiselle, but only you can change that dark frown upon your face. Now hurry! Bathe while I fetch you something to break your fast."

Before Annabelle could leave the bed, Nanette was gone from the room. Never in her entire short life had she ever seen Nanette cross or unhappy. _Emmeline must have sent her to torture me,_ Annabelle decided with increasing feelings of rebellion as she stripped off her ruined gown. The small bath had been placed by the fireplace which was freshly stoked and burning. Sticking her finger in the water brought the sweet pleasure that it was truly warm. She slid into the liquid warmth and leaned back against the high back of the tub. There was nothing that could have forced her to resist closing her eyes, and so, after scrubbing her body with the hope to remove the past evening, she finally lay back and dozed.

Nanette bustled in through the door and upon seeing her young mistress, stopped short. The maid could not help but look with compassion at Annabelle. _She has no idea how beautiful she is even now, nor does she know that one day she will surely be a great beauty. Look at her! Long spun gold hair with eyes to match! It 's strange that Sir Jeffroi is suddenly taking her on an undisclosed journey; but why in the name of all the saints did she think she was being thrown out. Throw out their only treasure? I don't think so,_ Nanette thought in fierce loyalty to the young girl, as she carefully lay out a new white velvet dress, ermine trimmed boots, and a long lush fur coat to match. Tack everything but these', Sir Jeffroi had admonished her, pointing to the stack of multiple size boxes in his study. Nanette had quickly fallen in love with the pearl necklace and earrings the minute she had removed them from their silk lined case.

Feeling the awesomeness of the task ahead, she studied Annabelle's closed eyes in motherly concern. The girl's facial bones were delicately carved with a faintly rosy mouth that was full with upward turned corners. Nanette could only remember her as very gentle and serenely wise for her age. Though she appeared delicate and ethereal, there was great strength maturing beneath that unripened beauty. She hated to wake her, but Sir Jeffroi was already pacing in his study.

"Lady Annabelle, you must not linger any longer or we shall both feel the master's displeasure. Come. Sit up and let me wash your hair so we can get it dried before the fire."

It took some coaxing to stir the young mistress, but she had never proved troublesome like her sister Elise. In fact, it seemed as if Annabelle had little care as to how Nanette handled the tugging and pulling of her grooming, nor did she ask any more questions about the plans for the journey she would be taking. For a very bright and curious female, this lack of emotion, Nanette was most certain, was the dark display in a strange foreboding of things to come.

To set up your completion of this Historical Journey push this Authors link or search for Vernanne Bryan online:  
The Skull of Sidon

# Author's Note

As an author of historical novels, it is my intent to entertain and take the reader through an experience that will actually feel like having been there.

So real, the reader can "time travel" back to each historical and the experience of it is as if one had been a part of each person and place in which they lived.

Wars, rumors of wars, as well as personal life's battles, strike human passions to survive on land or on sea with human struggles between.

**Fields of Gold:** This is a slice of life during the Civil War. The reader is placed in a battle within the very first pages. This was an end to innocence, exemplified in the battle of Bull Run when two green armies met in the field of battle for the first time.

**To Key A Marquis:** This is a romantic adventure novel that takes place in England beginning in 1708 during the reign of Queen Anne with ship battles and power plays among the heads of state.

**Sublime Intervention:** The reader is placed into the historical Napoleonic and Hanoverian age. England is grimly dealing with the threat of the conquering French despot.

**Tangled In His Glory:** This story brings to clear reality for the reader what it takes to reach the pinnacles of artistic talent and survive the dark corners of evil consistently lurking on the fringes of a brilliant spotlight.

**When The Morning Comes In Heaven:** The reader becomes intimately acquainted with Sarah Morgan's experience of the civil war and the loss and heartache that ensued.

**The Skull Of Sidon:** The death of the young king of Jerusalem during the Crusades made the truce between the Christians and the Moslems harder to maintain. The Knights Templar closed the gates to the city and posted guards to prevent any attack. The reader becomes immediately engrossed in a tightly knit tale of Templar intrigue spanning hundreds of years with spiritual warfare brought into play.

# Coming in 2015

LAURA KEENE 1826-1873  
BY: Dr. VERNANNE BRYAN

**PACKED WITH HISTORY OF THE "LEGITIMATE THEATRE"**

  * THROUGHOUT ENGLAND AND THE U.S.A.
  * LISTS OF MOST OF THE ONSTAGE PLAYS PERFORMED BETWEEN 1826-1873
  * FOR STUDENTS OF THEATRE HISTORY
  * LEARNING HOW THE THEATRE WAS PERFORMED DURING THE CIVIL WAR.
  * HOW JOHN WILKES BOOTH SHOT PRESIDENT ABRAHAM LINCOLN AT THE FORD'S THEATRE.
  * HOW LAURA KEENE STOPPED THE RIOT AT THE FORD'S THEATRE.
  * HOW LAURA KEENE HELD PRESIDENT LINCOLN ON HER LAP WHILE HE WAS DYING AT THE FORD'S THEATRE.
  * HOW BOOTH'S FAMILY STOLE LAURA'S ARTISTIC VEHICLE [PLAYS], WITHOUT HER PERMISSION, AND PERFORMED "OUR AMERICAN COUSIN" AND OTHER PLAYS AFTER LINCOLN'S ASSIGNATION.
  * LEARN HOW THE CIVIL WAR EFFECTED ALL OF THE LEGITIMATE THEATRE HOUSES.
  * LEARN ABOUT "THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN" AND IT'S EFFECT ON THE AUDIENCES.

BY: DR. DARCY NIKOL BRYAN M.D.  
DR. VERNANNE BRYAN Ph.D.

**THE HISTORY BEHIND THE BATTLE OF CANCER**

  * THE ARSENAL OF RESEARCH WEAPONRY
  * POLITICS ON THE WAR AGAINST CANCER
  * THE CREATIVE FORCE OF THE DISEASE
  * ORAL HISTORIES OF THE HEROES FIGHTING CANCER
  * THE "ULNKNOWN SOLDIERS" IN CANCER COMBAT
  * THE INERADICABLE "HISTORY"OF WOMEN FOR THE MEDICAL HUMANITIES
  * THE INVESTIGATIONS, TREATMENT, SYMPTOMS OF CANCER
  * A BRIEF REVIEW OF THE CANCER PARADIGM SHIFT
  * CLINICAL OVERVIEW
  * THE CONTROVERSY AND CHOICES OF EVIDENCE
  * THE BEGINNING OF CANCER POLICY
  * PRESIDENTS NIXON, CARTER, AND THE POLITICAL CLASH OF PERSPECTIVES.
  * THE GENDERLESS? REPORT OF THE "WAR ON CANCER"
  * FOR STUDENTS OF ALL AGES PERTAINING TO MEDICAL TREATMENT AND POLITICAL PRESSURES IN COMBATTING CANCER.
  * THIS BOOK HELPS IN COMBATTING CANCER PHOBIA

