"Father, I do not want to marry that man!" Emily Laureen Myra Dantes exclaimed. Emily was seventeen and beautiful. She was average height and very skinny.

She had dark, mid-length hair that she couldn't stand to leave down, but it accentuated her green eyes. You couldn't tell she was from this French family. Now that she was seventeen, she could no longer stand the childish name Emily.

Only one person ever respected her wish to be called Myra—her first British friend Sammuel. Myra's family had moved from France to England so that her father could be a spy. Myra was ten and was in desperate need of a friend, and there was Sammuel.

"You don't want to marry Sammuel, do you?" Her father asked, "He's poor!"

"No! He's just a friend!"

"Then, who is it your in love with?"

"No one!" Myra sounded abhorred. "Father! I'm only seventeen. I don't know who I am, much less what I want in a husband. What if I wanted to marry and African, or a Spanish man? You know those Spaniards are awfully cute. The only thing I know is I don't want to marry Mr. Swann, at least not yet."

"I'm sorry, Emily." Her father was a firm believer in arranged marriages. It didn't matter to him what Myra wanted. He was all for the effect this marriage could have on his British reputation. The higher he was, the better he could spy.

Myra was thinking about this conversation as she was running, crying, to Sammuel's house. She finally arrived, and then knocked on the door. Sammuel's father opened the door, took one look at her, and yelled up the stairs, "Sam! It's for you."

He came running down the stairs, saw her, and said, "Hey Myra, what's wrong?"

Myra didn't even bother saying anything; she just fell into Sammuel's arms and kept crying. He gradually pulled her inside and sat her down.

Sammuel knelt in front of her and again asked, "What's wrong?"

She answered in some weird, moaney talk that Sammuel couldn't understand. He thought, "What did I get myself into?" and his face showed it.

He continued, "Is it Mr. Swann again?" Sammuel was good friends with Weatherby Swann as well. However, neither could know of his friendship with the other. It might have terminated their relationship, or his friendship.

"I'm not ready to get married." Myra balled.

Sammuel grabbed hands consolingly, "I know Myra. We talked about it yesterday. Think about it Myra, this may not be too bad of a thing."

"What?" She asked in shock.

"They have this phrase on my ship—sort of a saying—that they use whenever things don't go the way you'd plan. Like when some storm shreds a sail, or we lose something to a battle, that's when they say it. 'Let the night go on.' Now, I didn't really get it at first, but it seems to mean to just make the best of every situation."

"And?" Myra had stopped crying and was curious to see what Sammuel would say next.

"You have your engagement party tonight, right?"

"Right."

"Wrong! It's just a party. Forget that you're engaged and just have some fun. And you love children. Think of your marriage as a chance to have children. And I'll always be here if you need someone to talk to. Come on, your life isn't that bad!"

"Okay." She was going to be all right. His mission was accomplished!

It was very important to Weatherby Swann that Sammuel was at the party. Sammuel had hoped he didn't have to go, but Weatherby insisted. He would just have to avoid Myra. Then, Sammuel walked through the door. They had an announcer who announced everyone who came through the door, including him.

Myra came right up to Sammuel a hugged him saying, "Thank you so much for your advice. This party is awesome!" He could tell she was drunk because she never talked like that.

Sammuel spent several minutes trying to get away from Myra who seriously wanted to talk. While she was blabbing on about everything, Sammuel was trying to find Weatherby to be sure that he didn't see them. He found Weatherby talking to a few men.

Myra asked, "By the way, who invited you?"

Sammuel looked at Myra and replied, "Huh?" When he looked up again he couldn't find Weatherby.

"Who invited you?"

"Oh… uh…" He kept looking.

"I did." Weatherby appeared behind Sammuel.

Sammuel turned around and commented, "Nice to see you Weatherby."

"Nice to see you too." Weatherby grumbled as he lividly punched Sammuel. Sammuel fell over backwards and slid into the crowd that had now begun to gather. They kept making comments like, "Is that a way to treat a friend?" or "No one will ever forget this party."

No one dared help Sammuel up, even though they knew he was in the right. And though he was Weatherby's friend, he was poor, and dirty, and no one touches something dirty. He could be the king's best friend, and they wouldn't help him. Sammuel knew this, so he slowly picked himself off the floor and asked, "What was that for?"

"You know what you did." Weatherby scowled as he threw another punch that Sammuel deflected. He could never fight well, but he had learned to protect himself, a little.

"No, I don't." Sammuel replied.

"I saw you hugging my fiancé." By that time, Sammuel had his hands crossed, holding Weatherby's hands in place. Time seemed to stand still as the two friends looked into each other's eyes. Then they pushed away from each other.

Sammuel broke the silence with, "It's not what you think it is." A very bad line to say; that's what they all say.

"Then, what is it?" Weatherby drew his sword, and readied himself for attack.

Weatherby's daughter, Elizabeth who was only two at the time, stumbled to come see what the commotion was about. The only thing Myra ever did was stop Elizabeth before she could get in the way. Myra loved Elizabeth. That's the only reason she ever survived marriage. But back to Sammuel; as I said, that was a bad thing for him to say. Now Sammuel had no idea what to say.

Weatherby gave him a few seconds to say something, but when Sammuel said nothing, he continued, "That's what I thought." He came at Sammuel with his sword that time.

Sammuel somehow managed to grab Weatherby's right hand and uncorner himself while saying, "Wait I can explain."

"Then, explain." Weatherby lowered his sword.

Sammuel had never been very good under pressure. Words just left him. "Okay maybe I can't."

Weatherby charged him again.

"But...I don't love her." Sammuel was able to dodge on slash, but that was the end of his calm. He started rambling, "It's confusing. I don't even get it. We're more like brother-sister." All the while he was trying to get away, or at least be safe.

It wasn't working, so he desperately cried, "Wait!" still not knowing what he was going to say.

Since Weatherby was so worked up, he did everything in large actions. Therefore he took one huge step backwards and complained, "You're really starting to annoy me Sam. This is the last time I'm going to wait for you to say something. Next time, I'm going to kill you."

That gave Sammuel and idea. "Go ahead; kill me if you want to."

"Okay." Weatherby replied.

He almost started toward Sammuel again, but Sammuel added, "But...I want you to fight fair." To the British nobility it was very important that a fight was fair and equal, so Weatherby stopped in his tracks.

"What do you mean?"

"Remember the first day you ever saw Emily?"

"Yes, and I swore I would marry her right then and there."

"But I had known her for five years before that, five years. And we had something going on."

"Oh, and you didn't tell me this! For our whole relationship, I was dating someone who was already in love." This didn't seem to be going the right direction for Sammuel.

"No, because when I saw you two together, I realized you had something even better between you. And what was more, you could give her the things a girl needs. So I gave up everything that was more than just a friendship with her. I purposefully took that job as a sailor, so that I could get away from her, so that we would draw apart."

"Why?" Myra asked quietly. She looked shocked, and sad, and not drunk anymore.

"Why not? Weatherby was my friend, and I had an unfair advantage over what he wanted, and deserved." He turned back to Weatherby, "Now go ahead, and kill me. I really don't care. But, I want life, and I deserve life even if it's only a little. And you have years of experience on me with that sword."

"That is true." Weatherby said. Flattery really does work.

"Now, I realize you hate me, and I realize you don't want me to walk out of here alive. But for the sake of your reputation, for the sake of Emily's happiness I ask you, no I implore you." He got to his knees. "Throw the sword down and at least pretend you fought me fair."

There was another awkward silence that lasted forever. Weatherby looked at Myra, at Elizabeth, at the crowd, and at Sammuel. He just kept looking around because he was now the one at a lack of knowing what to do. The crowd was silent and kept looking at each other, wondering what would happen next.

Myra was on the verge of crying again. Sammuel just knelt there, dejected, praying something might help him. No one knew what he was trying to accomplish by saying those things. Not even Sammuel really knew what he meant. Everything contradicted itself. Was he using reverse psychology on Weatherby? Was he trying to get mercy or forgiveness? Or did he really want to die?

Weatherby had decided on the latter. He tossed his sword aside, appearing to be willing to either forgive Sammuel, or at least fight fair. Sammuel heard the clang as the sword hit the ground, and he looked up. There was Weatherby, standing there with his arms outstretched, welcoming Sammuel back.

Now being the non-fighter he was, Sammuel made his worst mistake right then. He looked back down to stand up, and Weatherby took advantage of that. While Sammuel wasn't looking, he grabbed his pistol and held it behind his back. Everyone knew it but Sammuel.

Weatherby gestured to his left- keeping the gun behind him- and invited, "Would you care to join me at our table?" Now Sammuel wasn't stupid. He knew that when Weatherby lost his temper he never calmed down that fast. Therefore he walked with caution because he knew Weatherby had something up his sleeve. But he had never expected to be pistol whipped on the left side of his head.

He fell to the ground just as even the best fighters do. He would have been all right, for he was starting to get back up. However, when he got to his hands and knees, Weatherby kicked him, in the gut, and fell back down.

During this whole process, Weatherby was talking. As Sammuel fell the first time, he exclaimed, "I don't fight fair!" He paused for a moment. "At least not with dirty," the first kick, "lying," another, Sammuel stopped trying to get up, "thieves!"

There was almost a third, but everything was interrupted by, "Hey everybody! I'm here!" There was a corpulent, happy man walking down the stairs. He had a loud bellowing voice that everyone could hear. As soon as the crowd heard his voice, they dispersed and made the appearance that nothing had ever happened.

Weatherby also heard his voice and immediately recognized it as his father. He looked up just to be sure, and it was. He also noticed the crowd had dispersed and left him with now cover, so he knew he had to stop.

His father was making the rounds. He would stop and say hi to everyone, give them a hug- he was very friendly- and move on. However, you could tell he was making his way towards Weatherby. That meant Weatherby couldn't hide what he had done.

Weatherby just stood there waiting for his father. Myra was inching closer and closer to Sammuel to see if he was still alive. When Weatherby's father finally got there, Myra jumped up.

He said, "I'm sorry I'm late Weatherby. I just...what happened here?" He had been hugging Weatherby when he saw Sammuel. "What happened to your friend?" You could tell in his voice that he didn't approve of the friendship, but was trying to be supportive. Then, Weatherby's father's personal advisor walked up and whispered a bunch of gibberish into the father's ear. They looked hilarious standing next to each other because the advisor was a tall scrawny fellow. After the advisor had finished, Weatherby's father was floored!

"How dare you treat someone who you claim to be friends with like that! And especially not at a party where you can hurt your reputation. Didn't I teach you better?" People had started to gather before this, but now everyone was there.

"He's not my friend!"

"What did he do to make you change your mind, son? In one night what could he have done?"

Weatherby looked at the floor, and then without moving his head, he glared up at his father. "He's a dirty, lying thief!"

"Now what did I tell you about making poor people your friend? But now that he's your friend, you have to treat him like a friend, even disown him like a friend."

"But he didn't treat me like a friend." Weatherby scowled.

"I ask you again, what did he do?"

"He was hitting on my girl!"

"He was not!" Myra interrupted. "He's just—"

"Stay out of this. It's not about you." Weatherby said as he slapped Myra. Like I said, once he lost his temper, it was gone for a few days.

"Actually," Weatherby's father calmly stated, "it's all about her. And I suggest you let her tell her side of the story."

I know that was a terrible place to end that night, but after that something happened which everyone there refuses to speak about. Everyone managed to come out alive, and Weatherby claimed to have forgiven Sammuel. Of course, that was a lie, but it still doesn't make sense what they could be hiding.

That was May; this was December. Everyone had seemed to be fairly happy for those several months. However, one night, Myra came home crying. Her father was visiting France; the slaves were in bed. Sammuel had taken another job on the seas, and her wedding was the next day. Everything was coming down on her already, and then, it happened.

For Weatherby's 23rd birthday, he had been given a brand new house by his father. He invited Myra over for dinner, and since they were all alone, he felt free to do whatever he wanted. Myra had felt terrible after that night, so dirty. But this was worse.

Things had been different lately. She went to the doctor, and sure enough, she was pregnant. She planned on telling Weatherby the next day, or the next, but she needed to talk now. The only thing she could do was write a long, long letter to Sammuel.

That night, she cried herself to sleep. The next day, she was too busy to mail the letter, what with her father coming back, and her wedding and all. She put the letter in the bag she was bringing to Weatherby's house. Surprisingly, the wedding went well—enough.

After the wedding, however, Myra lay in bed thinking of how best to tell Weatherby. It was very, very late before she finally came up with the right words.

She leaned over and whispered, "Weatherby." No answer. "Weatherby…Weatherby!" He was asleep. She figured she'd just tell him the next morning.

The next morning, though, Weatherby was up way before Myra was. He was bored—and trying to be nice—so he started unpacking for her. Then, he came across the letter to Sammuel. It didn't take long before he'd decided to read it.

Weatherby came running up the stairs, and shouted, "You're pregnant!"

A half-awake Myra mumbled, "What did you say?"

"I can't believe you would tell Sammuel before me!" He continued, "I'm your husband now. You trust me! Do you understand that?"

Myra sat up, realizing this was a serious thing and replied, "I tried to tell you last night Weatherby, but you were asleep. I'm sorry."

Ignoring her, he kept yelling, "He'd better not come home next week, or else." He burnt the letter in the candle on the bureau. Then, changing the subject, he asked, "Look outside; what do you see?"

Myra got out of bed, walked to the window, and looked out with him, "It's dark outside. I can't see much. The yard, the mountains, or something."

"Exactly! I gave you all of this…the yard, the mountains, everything. And all I ask back of you is that you are loyal to me, and you tell me the truth."

"That's fine. I promise I will." She said willingly.

"Then tell me, who's baby is it?"

"Yours! Of course!" She said truthfully.

"If that is the truth, then why would you tell Sammuel before me?" He had a good point—now if only he could get there more calmly next time.

"I swear in the name of God that it is yours Weatherby! I would have told you, but you were busy when I found out. Nobody was home; I had no one to tell, but I just had to tell someone. Otherwise I'd go insane. I just couldn't wait."

Weatherby didn't believe her, but he acted satisfied with the answer. He spent the next few months gathering new ways to prove Myra had been lying, so he could disbelieve the statement. But he never found anything.

Weatherby wanted to kill somebody so bad. He did everything in his ability to vent his feelings. He burnt every letter Sammuel sent them, including the one that said his ship was attacked, and his arrival home would be delayed. When Sammuel finally did get home, Weatherby made sure he was fired.

Still, after all that, he would come to hate the child Wesley—me. He first showed that at my baby shower.

Everybody else was acting joyful. The women were all hanging around looking at presents and taking turns holding me. The men, as normal, stayed in the Study smoking, drinking, talking politics, and maybe playing some cards.

Weatherby, though, just stood in the corner glaring at everyone. He eventually walked over to Sammuel and pulled him into a back room. Weatherby hadn't said much to Sammuel since the wedding, so he could sense it wasn't going to be good.

Sammuel was shocked, however, when Weatherby pushed him against the wall, and threatened, "I'm going to kill that baby of yours!"

Then, he released Sammuel and left the room. Sammuel just stood there for a moment. What had Weatherby meant? He didn't have a baby. He hardly had a fiancé, much less a child. Whatever it was, it was going to be bad.

Sammuel realized he had to stop this. He ran out of the room and started searching the party for Weatherby. He glanced out the window for a second, and saw someone riding quickly away from the party. He supposed it was Weatherby—which he was right.

He made his way through the crowd, and out the door. Someone had just arrived and he was getting off his horse.

Sammuel asked, "Can I borrow your horse?" Without waiting for a reply, he handed the man six bits and jumped on the horse. He finished, "Thank you. I'll bring it back. I promise!"

He rode off following the other rider who was now just a speck on the horizon. Sammuel rode the horse hard and was starting to catch up when he realized they were going up to the cliff. When he got to the top, Sammuel jumped off the horse. He could see Weatherby standing there holding me over the edge.

He didn't turn around to say, "I knew you'd come."

I was tired of crying, so it had become more of a quiet sobbing.

Sammuel commented, "You know, I just thought I'd remind you of what happened to your other wives. Amanda—killed by pirates, a week before your wedding. Elizabeth's mother died in childbirth."

"Are you blaming those things on me?" Weatherby asked appalled.

"No, I'm simply stating, you don't have the best luck with…girls. Most men want sons, and—if your life continues the way it has been—you're about to kill your only chance."

"But I can never love him, the bastard. He's not mine."

"Then, whose is he?" Sammuel was shocked.

"Don't try to fool me. I know he's yours." Weatherby scowled.

"MINE!" Then, everything made sense to him, why Weatherby had stopped talking to him and all.

"Stop playing these games with me! I know you're lying. I don't want to have anything to do with a liar like you. Can't you see the clues?"

"You did all that?" Sammuel asked, seeing even more of the picture. "Firing my father, and then me…You've all but killed me, and all because you thought I had an affair with your wife. You…" He stopped in frustration, unable to express his feelings. Finally, he started again, "How long does it take for a baby to be born. Nine months, is it not?"

Weatherby did not respond.

"Would you not agree that it takes nine months?" Sammuel asked again.

"Yes," Weatherby agreed reluctantly. "Why?"

"Where was I nine months ago, Weatherby?" Again, no answer. "See, you speak before you think. I was anchored off the coast of Africa. How do you think I got to your wife?"

"I do not know," Weatherby mumbled.

"That is because I couldn't have."

That entire time, Sammuel had been inching closer and closer to Weatherby with the intentions of grabbing me. He didn't grab me, but instead, got his words together enough to say, "Look at the child for a moment. He looks like you, does he not? He has your eyes, your nose. No matter how much you hate me, you have to realize that he is your son. Nothing can change that. Appreciate it…and hate me some other way."