Victoria was sitting at her mirror, brushing out her long blonde hair and moodily staring at her own reflection, when her door opened with a small creak, light from the hall pooling onto the floor. Beckett stood framed in the doorway, watching her with calculating eyes. She made no move to respond to his presence. She didn't care what he had to say to her, nor did she wish to speak to him. She wasn't entirely certain her beleaguered and confused mind could take much more of his battering tonight.

If her reticence annoyed him, he did quite a job of hiding it. He calmly stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, glaring at the maid until she made a hurried exit into a different room. "I don't suppose you have an answer for me," he said finally when she did not acknowledge him.

"I have an answer," Victoria said harshly, "But I may find myself regretting it if I were to submit it as my true response."

Beckett chuckled darkly. "Doubtless, a correct assessment," he agreed. "If I've taught you nothing else, I know at least that you've learned to choose your words carefully."

Victoria had nothing to say to that. She set down her brush with a forceful thump and pulled her hair back, beginning to loop it into a messy braid. Beckett watched her with careful consideration, waiting to see if she would say something. Finally, he came to stand beside her. "Mercer gave me this a few weeks ago," he said casually, setting down a stack of parchment. "I believe you may find it quite… informative."

"What is it?" Victoria asked, eyeing it as though it were a loathsome insect.

"Records of the HMS Daring's voyage back to England, from about five years ago," he told her. "Lists the weather, the cargo, the passengers, that sort of thing."

"And I care because?"

"I thought you might be interested in the section marked 'marriages,'" he remarked. "I believe you will find the exact page has a bent corner. There were three couples married on board that ship, one of them a pregnant young woman about two years your senior."

Victoria felt a terrible sense of dread creeping through her. "Why does this interest me?" she whispered.

"Look and you'll see."

She wasn't watching him, but she heard the smirk in his voice. She turned to glare at him, green eyes narrowed down to tiny slits, out of which tears had begun to spill. "You mock me," she hissed.

"Perhaps." He motioned to the pages on the table. "Are you going to read? Or shall I read it for you?"

Victoria reluctantly reached out and pulled the parchment towards her. She shifted the pages, listening as they rustled like dry leaves scuttling across the pavement. The sound distracted her from what she was doing, allowing her mind to focus on something, anything, besides what she was about to read. All too soon, her fingers found the page with the bent corner. Her eyes slowly scanned downwards, studying the steady, simple hand that had written the word "Marriages" in the middle of the page.

She read the names. The first she came across shattered her simple state of denial with heart-rending force.

Orson Shaw and Jane Thrush Shaw, married this day…

She pressed a fist to her lips to keep the sobs within her from boiling forth. All this time – a year and a half, now – and he had been married. He'd lied to her! He'd promised her a whole world, and he'd never meant to keep that promise…

Her nerveless fingers let the page flutter lightly down onto the desk. Beckett calmly reached over and placed the paper back where it belonged in the stack, straightening the stack and removing it from her sight. She didn't see where he set it; she buried her face in her hands and started to weep.

Beckett was completely unsympathetic. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said derisively. "Did I shatter all your childish fantasies about the scum you chose to associate with? I beg your pardon, Miss Thorne. Perhaps if you'd listened to me from the start this phase would have been long over and you and I both could have gotten on with our lives. That damn pirate would have been hung and you would bloody well have been my wife by now."

"Stop!" Victoria cried, leaping from her seat. "Is it not enough for you to take everything I have from me?"

"No," he replied simply. "Because once I've taken everything you have, I intend to take you, too."

"I hate you!" Victoria snarled, stepping back from him with her hands clenched into fists. "And I will hate you until the day I die!"

"Oh, yes, hate me - do," Beckett laughed mirthlessly. "See how much good it does you in the end." He caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. "Hate me for the moment," he said in a deathly soft voice, "But someday you'll love me. One day, you will no longer have a choice but to love me…"

He released her and stepped back, one hand sliding down her arm and taking her wrist. He lifted her limp hand and slid a striking golden ring around her finger. "Good night, Lady Beckett," he sneered, dropping her limp arm and turning away.

Victoria lifted her hand, staring at the ring he'd given her. Wreaths of gold looped elegantly about several shimmering diamonds and sapphires. It was truly stunning. Any other woman might have fainted at the sight of such a rich offering – but Victoria was distressed and furious to boot. "You don't yet have my consent," she called to Beckett's retreating back.

He turned on her with a vicious glare. "You cannot seriously be rejecting me," he said incredulously.

She drew in a deep breath. "I'm not," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "But neither am I accepting." She went to sit on her bed, smoothing her dress with nervous hands. "This is all a bit… overwhelming for me, you understand," she said slowly. "I need a little time to consider my options."

"Ah, yes," Beckett retorted, "The options that you don't have."

"As long as I'm alive, I have a choice," she said certainly. "I could kill myself, you know."

"It would be a terrible waste," Beckett told her, "But if you'd rather be a feast for the worms than the dazzlingly beautiful wife of a respected and wealthy lord, be my guest. The window's open; you may as well hurl yourself from it right now."

"Your ridicule is unnecessary and unappreciated," Victoria said testily. "I could run."

"Where to?" Beckett snorted. "I have agents everywhere. Besides, Mercer is the best bloody tracker in the British Empire. I'd like to see you try to hide from him."

This was admittedly true, so she didn't argue with him. "I don't think I'm asking for much," she said. "I merely requested a few days to think over your proposal. Is that so uncommon?"

Beckett looked murderous. "And when," he inquired nastily, "Shall I have my Lady's answer?"

"Wednesday," she replied automatically.

"Wednesday is going to be quite the busy day, isn't it?" he sighed. "Very well, Miss Thorne – for the moment." He eyed her suspiciously. "If you believe refusing will allow you to return home –!"

"You needn't worry about that," Victoria said in disgust. "I have no such hopes now. Should I choose to reject you – and believe you me, it's not yet out of the question – I am certain you will continue your pursuit more doggedly than before."

"You've no idea," Beckett said ominously. "And when, precisely, shall you answer me on Wednesday?"

"I'll make the time to tell you," she promised.

"You'd better," Beckett growled. He turned on his heel and started towards the door without so much as a goodnight. Suddenly, he paused, turning to her with a raised eyebrow. "Tell me something, Victoria," he said. "What do you know of a gold ring of mine with my initials emblazoned on its front?"

Victoria turned to him so speedily that if she had not been sitting she most certainly would have lost her balance. "I – what?" she gasped.

He raised both brows at this reaction. "I was told to inquire as to its whereabouts," he said. "Miss Whitlock seemed to believe that you might have some recollection of its location. I lost it almost six years ago. I'd forgotten about it, actually, until she mentioned it."

"I'm going to kill that girl," Victoria seethed.

"Why?" Beckett demanded, perplexed.

"Nothing," Victoria said through clenched teeth. "I have no idea what she's talking about."

"We absolutely must work on your lying skills," Beckett sighed. "You're absolutely pathetic at it."

"Just leave me alone!" she said sharply. "It's not important…"

"It's a solid gold ring," Beckett said indignantly, "And it's mine, which makes it very important."

"I don't have it," she said frigidly. "Now get out, before I decide to start throwing things at you, too."

"You've done quite enough of that to Mercer," Beckett said. "I hardly believe I need a share of it."

"Oh, you do," Victoria said, reaching threateningly for a vase near her bed.

If she had been anyone else, Beckett would have scoffed at the notion that she might hurl such an object at him. But Victoria was not "anyone else." He moved quickly towards the door, calling over his shoulder, "Good night, Lady Beckett!"

He slammed the door just in time to hear the vase shatter into a thousand fragments against the wood frame. He shook his head in mild frustration and turned away. He desperately wanted to give the stubborn little wench a good thrashing, but there was still other work to be done, and it was waiting for him in large stacks inside his office…

Victoria awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of rocks banging against her window. She stirred from her bed and stumbled confusedly to the window's edge. She used all her strength to force the window open, then leaned out. "Who is it?" she hissed into the darkness.

"Oy there!" a voice replied in a loud whisper. "Are you Victoria Thorne?"

"Yes," Victoria sighed, rubbing her eyes.

"Are you sure?"

She blinked in confusion at the question. "Yes, I'm quite sure," she said with a frown. "Who are you?"

"I'll tell you in a minute; just come down," the disembodied voice ordered.

Victoria looked around nervously. "I don't think I can," she told the voice. "I imagine I'm guarded on all sides."

"Well that makes things bloody difficult, doesn't it?" the voice said irritably. "Fine, I'm coming up. Just hang on a minute. And step back from the window, love."

She obediently stepped back, in the meantime slowly reaching for a pistol she kept hidden by her bedside. She had no doubt that Mercer and Beckett would keep her safe from outside forces, but Mercer would hardly protect her from Beckett himself. She had thought a pistol might be the one thing capable of stopping Beckett from harming her. Of course, knowing Mercer, he'd already discovered the location of the bloody thing and had removed the ammunition.

Nonetheless, Victoria held the pistol in her hand and aimed it at the window. She most certainly did not trust whoever was attempting to climb into Beckett's house; he sounded as though he came from the lower class – possibly a pirate. A friend of Orson's, maybe. And any man who could be friend to Orson was not her friend.

She aimed the gun at the window, eyes narrowed in concentration. As she stood poised and ready to shoot, she abruptly wondered – Where exactly is Mercer? He should have been back by now… But she didn't have time to question further. A man's head appeared in the window frame, and she instantly pulled the trigger of the pistol – but the gun didn't go off. She flipped it open angrily – and saw nothing. Mercer had unloaded the damn thing! "Bastard," she growled, and then prepared to use the pistol as a club.

By the time she had recovered and was bringing the pistol towards her adversary, he was in the room and prepared for the next blow. "Whoa!" he said, catching her wrist. "Easy there, love. I'm not here to hurt you."

She studied him suspiciously. He had long, dark hair kept out of his face by a bright red bandana. He wore the clothing of a pirate, and his small goatee was braided with many beads. He looked quite out of place in the midst of the rich surroundings he stood in. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Name's Captain Jack Sparrow," he said with a grin, offering her his hand to shake. "Heard of me before?"

"Oh, yes, all the time!" Victoria said, fear fading to excitement. "You owe almost everyone at the Blind Beggar money!"

The grin on the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow's face evaporated at that. "So I do," he said, coughing a little in embarrassment. "But you have heard of me in some other way, right?"

Victoria frowned, then shook her head. "I don't believe so, no," she said.

Jack looked immensely disappointed. "Ah, well," he sighed. "It's my lot in life to be neglected and abandoned. Got any rum?"

"There might be brandy in the cellar," Victoria said doubtfully, "But I wouldn't attempt going down there. There are guards everywhere."

"I'd heard that the loathsome lord thought you were valuable," Jack said with a nod, starting to look around the room. "I didn't think it'd be this bloody easy to get to you. Is that candlestick solid gold?"

Victoria glanced at the candlestick in question in surprise. "I… believe so," she said. She shot him a nasty look. "You're not touching it, though."

"'Course not," Jack agreed, but he was still eyeing it with a greedy glint in his eye. He turned back to her and caught sight of the diamond ring still on her finger. "Nice ring," he said, nodding to it. "That a gift from the man in miniature?"

It took her a moment to realize that Jack was mocking Beckett's considerable height deficiency. "Well, yes, actually," she said with a smile. "He's proposed to me."

"I love weddings!" Jack said cheerily. "There's always something good to drink and plenty of good food to eat, and some very nice gifts for the bride and groom."

"Why do I get the feeling that the bride and groom find themselves lacking several gifts when you're a guest?" she sighed. "Captain Sparrow, why are you here? I had understood that you and Beckett aren't very friendly with one another."

Jack made a face. "We're not," he assured her. "Otherwise, why would I have come through the window? No, love, I'm here about a certain mission that one of our noble comrades has set you upon – something to do with Excalibur?"

Victoria's smile disappeared instantly. "Orson is not a noble comrade," she said harshly. "He's lying, filthy swine and I want nothing to do with him!"

"Strong words from a woman who he claims has been his lover for over a year," Jack said in surprise.

"He's married," Victoria said flatly.

Jack flinched. "Ah, yes… that," he sighed. "Unfortunate but true. But you can't blame the man for falling in love with such a beautiful woman, can you?"

She blushed but refused to be baited into believing Orson's love was true. "I don't believe he loves me," she said.

"Well, I think he does," Jack said simply. "I know he trusts you, too, 'cause he set you up to steal the mystical sword thing away from our gallows-happy enemy Beckett. Do you know where it is?"

"I've seen it," Victoria said cautiously, "But he's moved it since then. I've no idea where it's gone to."

"Bugger," Jack said, beginning to pace. He walked past her mirror and dressing table and smoothly snitched a gold and ruby necklace from it. Had she not been so well trained to watch for pickpockets, Victoria would never have noticed. "See, we were hoping that you might have already recovered the sword," he said, turning back towards her. "It's a matter of some urgency, see… the lovely EIC is planning an attack, we think, and we'd like to have a little surprise waiting for them when they come. Do you think you could maybe find the sword soon?"

"Put the necklace back, then we'll talk," Victoria ordered.

Jack looked astonished, but he quickly returned the necklace to its place and then stood at attention, still nervously shifting from foot to foot.

Victoria couldn't help but smile as she watched Jack's shifty movements. "I can't promise you much," she said doubtfully. "I'd have to distract Cutler somehow, and that won't be easy."

"Surely a beautiful woman like you can find certain ways to distract him?" Jack said, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "Savvy?"

She grimaced. "I understand," she said. "But I refuse to be brought down to the level of a whore."

"So marry the bugger," Jack suggested, casually leaning against her wardrobe. "He's given you a bloody ring with a diamond the size of a bloody apple; marry him, keep him distracted for the honeymoon month, and while distracting him, find the sword."

This was a good idea, of course – if Victoria still intended to help the pirates. But after the information she had been given about Orson, she was no longer eager to assist the pirates in any way she could. In fact, she wanted to understand the value of this sword she had offered to find for her pirate friends. "Why should I want to help you?" she demanded. "Orson has deceived me, and he was my primary reason for assisting in some way."

"It's not that simple though, is it, love?" Jack said quickly. "See, you don't like Beckett, do you?"

She shook her head.

"And you're trying to fight him in every way you can, aren't you?"

She nodded her agreement.

"Stealing Excalibur is the best possible way in which to fight him," Jack explained. "See, you take the sword from him, and he loses a huge source of influence over London. It's a victory for Beckett's enemies, which is automatically a victory for you. Savvy?"

"Yes," Victoria said slowly. "But how can I trust you?"

"I'll give you something valuable in return for your promise that the sword will go to us," Jack offered.

"Such as?"

Jack looked about his person for something valuable. He hesitated a very, very long time – then untied a compass from the sash at his waist. "This," he said reluctantly, holding it out to her.

She took it and flipped it open. It immediately spun towards the east and held there. "A compass that doesn't point north?" she said skeptically.

"No, it doesn't point north," Jack agreed. "It points to the thing you want most, love."

"Does it, now?" Victoria said, rolling her eyes. "How great of a fool do you think I am?"

"No, really, it does," Jack said, looking wounded. "Think about it. What's to the east? Orson? One of your friends? Your family and home?"

Home. She paused at that, studying the direction in which the arrow pointed. She realized that it was indeed pointing directly towards her family and her house. "That's just coincidence," she said quickly. "It doesn't actually –!"

"You don't think so?" Jack said. "Try handing it to Beckett sometime. See if the damn thing doesn't point at you."

"I doubt he desires me above all other things," she said skeptically.

"Right now I imagine he does," Jack said. "He hasn't been keeping up with his Company work because he's been so avidly pursuing you. His fellow lords are not very happy with him, I'll say that."

"Really?" Victoria said thoughtfully. She looked down at the compass in her hand. "I'll think about it," she said finally.

Jack sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that," he said. "Fine, so be it. I'll be back Wednesday night to have your answer – or my compass, whichever your answer dictates."

Victoria heaved a sigh. "Wednesday is quite the day," she murmured. "Very well."

Jack bowed almost drunkenly. "G'night, Lady Beckett," he said.

"It's Miss Thorne," Victoria said sharply.

Jack looked up with a grin. "For the moment," he agreed. He saw the murderous glint in her eyes and promptly leapt out the window, sliding down a long column to the ground and running off into the night.

At that moment, Mercer entered the room. He stopped in surprise when he saw that Victoria was awake. "Up so late, milady?" he asked, closing the door behind him.

"I… couldn't sleep," Victoria said quickly, hiding the compass behind her back. "Today has been so odd…"

"Yesterday, by this hour," Mercer said a bit distractedly. Victoria inwardly breathed a sigh of relief; something else was occupying Mercer's mind, and it kept him from noticing her peculiar behavior.

"Out doing Beckett's dirty work, were you?" she asked, sliding beneath the covers of her bed and hiding the compass beneath her pillow – not the most ideal of hiding places, but it was the best she could do for the moment.

"Hmmm? No," Mercer said, absently closing the window as though it weren't strange for it to be standing open. "No, I was returning Cat home."

"Ah, I see," Victoria said, a wide grin spreading across her face. "And how was Cat?"

Mercer, despite his distracted state, noticed her tone and glanced at her. "Miss Whitlock," he said stiffly, "Was fine."

"You know, it doesn't take this long to go to her house and back," Victoria noted thoughtfully. "You must have paused along the way. Did she manage to hold your attention for this long a time?"

"Go to sleep, wench," Mercer growled, turning away angrily.

Victoria hid a smile and said, "But Mercer, I can't sleep. My mind's far too restless. Won't you tell me what you talked about with her?"

"If you can't sleep, then you can converse with your husband," Mercer informed her none-to-kindly.

"That won't be necessary," Victoria said hurriedly, eyes widening at the thought of having to speak to Beckett yet again that night.

"I didn't think so," Mercer said in satisfaction. "Go to sleep."

Victoria huffed irritably, but laid down and curled cozily beneath her covers – and was soon lulled asleep by the warmth of her blankets and dreams of potential victory…

The next few days were spent in a flurry of activity. A tailor visited, throwing every variety of luxurious fabrics into each corner of Victoria's room for her inspection. Beckett informed the tailor that no expense for her masquerade costume was too great; thus, the tailor had brought all his most exotic and most costly fabrics to the mansion for her selection. She had quite the time selecting something from the incredible array of cloth offered her – each new bolt was so beautiful in its own unique way, and each offered delicious possibilities for costumes. But when her eye landed on a long bolt of fabric painted with a map of the world, an idea struck her as lightning might strike a tree. "That one," she said instantly, pointing to it.

Beckett, who had been watching in amusement, arched a brow at this unusual selection. "A map of the world, my dear?" he said. "I do believe we've spent far too much time together; your tastes are becoming far too similar to mine."

Momentarily repulsed, Victoria almost changed her mind; but no, the costume she would make with the dress would fit perfectly into her plans. "I had the most marvelous idea for a costume," she said to him. "Otherwise, you can be assured I would have selected something else."

There was a lengthy pause while Victoria longingly fingered several other fabrics. Beckett noted her sad look and smiled. "As long as the tailor's here, you might as well select fabric for several other dresses," he told her casually.

The tailor looked near ecstatic at this news. "You realize, sir, that the cost will be great?" he said hesitantly.

"Oh, I realize it," Beckett said calmly. "But such a woman deserves only the finest… don't you agree?"

"Oh, yes," the tailor said fawningly. Victoria didn't believe a word; a man of his occupation would say anything if it would cause his wealthy clients to spend a great deal of their money. If Beckett had been anyone else, Victoria would have declined such a generous gift, but wasting Beckett's money was, in a way, a sort of perverse revenge on him for all that he had done – and would do – to her.

By the end of the day, the tailor left with orders for twelve dresses made of his most expensive and most elegant fabrics, with the command that her masquerade dress must be completed in all haste. The man had promised he would not sleep, and after having made that promise, was followed home by several company guards to ensure that he would keep it. Victoria pitied the poor man; he would be quite exhausted by the time this project was completed.

Later that night, she sent Mercer to retrieve an East India Trading Company flag for her. When he asked why she would want such a thing, she merely smiled mysteriously and motioned that he go. He returned and laid the flag on her table with a shake of his head.

The next day Victoria was left alone for the most part while Beckett oversaw preparations for her birthday masquerade. She spent her precious free hours in her little hideaway, the rose-covered cabin, with Mercer quietly following her about the place. He did his best to remain unobtrusive, however, and she was mostly left to her own devices. She used to the time to write an elaborate poem with a complex rhyme scheme about a bird trapped in a cage by a cruel lord who jealously wished to possess her. The metaphor was not particularly subtle, but she didn't care; let Beckett see it, and let him think what he would of her.

Mercer, it was clear, had no love of poetry. When he snatched her diary from its place on the table and opened it to her entry, his eyes scanned the first few lines, and then he snorted and threw it back to her. "A poet in hiding, are we, milady?" he said disdainfully. "You ought to look at the library Beckett's got in this place. You might find something of interest to you there."

"How many libraries does he have?" Victoria said in amazement. She followed Mercer into a room lined with shelves of books. She spent most of the rest of the afternoon browsing, at last settling on a volume of poems by a man named Andrew Marvell.

It was dark out when Beckett came to retrieve her. By that point she had moved on to John Donne's love poems and was deeply engrossed, and so didn't notice his presence until he began to quote.

"Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime," he began.

She chuckled, the aptness of the poem he had chosen to quote quite humorous. "But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near…"

"Thy beauty shall no more be found, nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound my echoing song; then worms shall try that long-preserved virginity and your quaint honor turn to dust and into ashes all my lust: the grave's a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace…" Beckett concluded.

" 'To His Coy Mistress,' my Lord?" Victoria asked with a mischievous grin. "An interesting choice."

Beckett smiled. "I felt it appropriate," he said, "As you, my dear, have played quite coy with me for nigh a year."

"And so you thought to seduce me by trying to convince me that we have no time for my continuous rejection?"

"We don't have time for it," he said, approaching her and sitting on the couch beside her. "Life is short, and you and I both have a great deal of enemies. Any day we could find ourselves murdered in our beds."

"That would be a convincing argument if I weren't certain that you have set virtually every precaution to prevent such a murder from occurring," Victoria laughed. "If you think by saying this I'll give you an answer to your proposal a day earlier than I promised I would, or that I might suddenly decide to give in to your fiery desires, you'll be quite disappointed."

Beckett heaved a sigh. "You are ever unfair to me, my dear," he said.

"I must admit I'm surprised you know the poem so well," Victoria said.

"I know a great deal of literature," Beckett said, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you?" Victoria said, her voice challenging. "It hardly seems a pursuit an unromantic and business-minded individual like yourself would engage in."

"I'm a very surprising man, sometimes."

"So I've noticed," Victoria said, "But being able to quote one rather ridiculous love poem hardly impresses a woman like me who has read all sorts of literature – if, indeed, that was your hope."

"Perhaps," Beckett said evenly. "How, then, might I impress my ever-so-difficult to please beloved?"

"You don't love me," Victoria said flatly. "And I'm certain you can't impress me. But if you'd like to try, I would suggest quoting something more intellectual. I prefer intellectual reading material to light and useless romance poetry."

"Strange," Beckett said with a grin, "I'd pinned you for the sort with her head in the clouds – the sort who would love just that kind of poetry."

"Then you judged wrong, didn't you?" She turned away, lifting Donne's book determinedly back into her hands and beginning to read again – a clear indication that she wanted Beckett to leave.

He didn't. He studied her carefully, hesitating slightly, but then spoke slowly. "So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, farewell remorse: all good to me is lost; Evil be thou my good…"

Victoria grew sober. "Paradise Lost," she murmured, setting down the book.

Beckett nodded gravely. "My favorite epic," he revealed. He paused again. "Satan is quite a fascinating character," he added, looking at her as though hoping to hear her thoughts on the matter. "He's immensely charismatic, a good leader, but ever conflicted. He craves God's pardon but knows he will never be capable of serving anyone – not even God."

"Like you," Victoria said darkly. She stood and crossed the room towards the door. "I find myself quite tired, my Lord," she said formally. "I think I'll return to the house, if you're finished for the day."

"Have I offended you, Miss Thorne?" Beckett questioned, frowning slightly.

"No," she replied distantly. "It was merely… an interesting insight into the way you think, that's all. I trust I'll see you at supper."

"You will," Beckett said, studying her curiously. "Not that you'd miss me if I didn't put in an appearance."

"I might," she answered quietly.

He started in surprise. "What?" he said sharply, but she had already slipped out the door and gone.

He sat staring after her, totally perplexed. When Mercer appeared in the doorway with a questioning expression on his face, Beckett mumbled, "I don't understand that wench at all. One minute she hates me, the next she seems to admire me."

"I doubt you're the only one who's confused," Mercer said dryly. "I certainly don't understand her. I don't think she understands herself, sometimes. Should I follow her, sir?"

"No, let her go," Beckett said with a small sigh. "She'll just be going inside. She has nowhere else to go…" He stood stiffly, and walked past Mercer towards the door of the small cottage. "I'll be happy when Wednesday comes," he said crossly. "Then I'll have my answer and I'll know just what needs to be done with her…"

"It's only five days more," Mercer said in an attempt to be comforting.

Beckett's eyes darkened. "A great deal can happen in five days…" he said ominously.

In fact, however, very little happened. There was a virtually continuous stream of visitors coming in and out of the house, to such a point that Beckett and Victoria saw relatively little of each other over the passing of the days.

The day after their surprising and awkward literary discussion, Victoria's family paid her a visit. She took a turn with each of them individually around the garden – even her eldest brother, Byron, who was never at home anymore. She walked with Byron first, as she hadn't seen him in the longest time. She was immensely relieved when he said nothing about Beckett's unanswered proposal. Instead, he told her about a young woman whom he had decided to court, a girl Victoria didn't know who lived in a different city. Next she walked with Charles, who lectured her extensively on Beckett's extreme generosity to the family and told her she would be a fool to refuse the extremely generous offer he had extended her. Edmund followed, and he lectured her on what a terrible man Beckett was and adamantly ordered her to do anything possible to avoid marrying him. Her father followed Edmund, countering his command with emphatic orders of his own.

She expected more of the same when her mother came out, but her mother merely cupped her face in her hands, kissed her on the forehead, and said, "So many women like you, my dear, find their spirits crushed and their dreams destroyed when they sell themselves for the promise of wealth and status. You're a wise girl, even for your age; and although I want this marriage for you, and your father wants it for the family, I know what can become of women who choose husbands for the wrong reasons. Follow your heart."

There were no more words on their walk, but there remained a silent understanding between them, as two women who were similarly experienced in life and whose devotion to one another needed no words.

Her family remained for dinner, then left almost at once. Their departure left a gaping wound in Victoria's heart – as though she'd seen them for the last time, and they'd never be returning to her. Perhaps, in a way, this was the truth – considering what she'd chosen in regards to Beckett's request for her hand.

She'd made her decision; she knew what her answer to Beckett's dreaded proposal must be. There was no choice, really – not if she wanted to be free. She prepared her answer in her mind several thousand times as the last days drew to a close, practiced it until it was a short, neat, and simple speech. She had to frame every word correctly and carefully – or suffer dire consequences.

Oh, yes… Wednesday would most certainly be an interesting day…