CHAPTER 2. A FIGHT IN THE DARK
Anne sat silent a long time, back straight, eyes half closed. The light started to fade in the park. She held Frederick's hand tight, though, as if she were the one who would not let him leave until she had had her say, but was looking what to say.
He couldn't take it anymore. "Anne, I…" he started but she cut him off.
"Frederick, do you really think I was stupid enough to believe you hadn't been out in the world? That there hadn't been girls, women?" She looked severe, angry even. He realized he had never seen her angry before. Distraught, yes, angry was something new.
"Do you think I am that stupid? Do you think I didn't see a passionate man, a handsome man?" She stared at him, touched his face gently. She sighed, but her eyes were hurt, still angry, thoughtful.
"Why do you men think women, at least we "ladies", are such delicate and stupid creatures? Nothing but insipid decorations? That we don't know what you are up to out there? Especially as unmarried and young men?" She glared at him, the anger leaping from eyes to her face. "Child bearing, child birth, … mothers dying in childbirth? You believe I have no idea how and why that all happens? Sir, do not think me so stupid or insipid. Nor young."
Somehow she sat taller, straighter. "Do not insult me."
He wanted to pull free, turn. Take her in his arms, do something. She wouldn't let him do anything but watch her face, and emotions playing over it.
Anne watched his face, saw the misery in it. She suddenly softened, brightened at a memory. "Besides, you kissed too well to… not have had … a bit of experience."
"How did you know that?" Frederick's voice squeaked, surprise clear in it, and his eyes narrowed. She'd taken a chance saying that, knowing him the way she did.
"Well, I had kissed some boys with absolutely no experience - before you." She smiled at him, and raised an eyebrow.
Seeing the flash of jealousy and confusion in his eyes she smiled. She would make him beg for those stories, but she'd never tell the one about her and Charlie Musgrove when they were only 8, playing house in the shrubbery.
Frederick tried to squash the jealousy flaring in his belly. She'd sat silent, listening to only a few of his adventures. She'd not screamed, not left him. He tried to be as understanding as her, after all, she was twenty eight, twenty nine now.
"And I only ever just kissed them. But that is not what matters." Worry in her eyes, her concern so easy to read. Her face was so close and he realized she hadn't pulled away. He could just lean in and steal a kiss.
"1806. The Asp. What changed within you that you got "so boring"?" Her eyes were serious.
"Do you really need to ask?" He was surprised she could not guess.
That story, that pain, of 1806 hovered between them like a stone around both their necks. The pain of that day, year after year. The day they broke. The pain too, of the day that they first met, year after year. She looked at him, said nothing, sat silent, measuring him, weighing everything within his eyes.
Levelly she asked, "I need to know, Sir, do you still have that death wish?" Her two hands squeezed his.
Damn the rules. He always had. Pulling her close, he said "No. Not since last night."
He glanced around, it was getting late. No one was on the paths, in this part of the darkening garden. He kissed her, quickly, gently. Put everything into it. "I have everything to live for now."
A tear fell on his hand.
He looked in her eyes, so cool, calm, collected, and realized that he was the one crying.
Stiff first, seeing those tears, she softened into his hug. He couldn't, though, dare kiss her again in public - he was pushing decorum with just this hug, had really pushed it with that stolen kiss. A hug, where he put all of his love into it would have to do. She pulled back, almost a proper distance. They sat, silent, just holding hands. Just looking at each other, a moment alone. Time slipped as he realized she was forgiving him for all – Louisa, walking away, his… adventures.
It was suddenly the edge of dark, and he realized they were quite alone, all the strollers had hurried home through the damp mist for an early tea. He pulled her close, tighter against him, thrilled she'd not pulled away. She held him equally tight, rested her head against his chest. Startled, he wondered what that meant.
Dare he push his luck, steal another kiss?
"Uhm, you don't have your fingers crossed behind my back do you?" She asked, her voice muffled by his coat jacket.
They both laughed, she looked up, and suddenly her soft lips found his. Startled he pulled back, but then let her kiss him. It was tentative at first, a soft kiss, then deeper, harder. His whole world fell into that kiss.
That kiss, Anne poured into it all her grief and forgiveness, until a loud bang split the evening dullness. She jerked away and sat up straight.
"Frederick, what was that?"
Before he could turn, a flash of light, another bang. Not looking, his body trained to respond rather than his mind working, he pulled her behind a large oak, protecting her with his body. Another flash, bang, a shout. A scream. A shout, a another scream, and explosions, one after the other. They did not seem to be getting closer, rather, stayed over near the hedge row.
Both pressed gasping against the massive oaks as flashes and shouts continued. Silence. Squirming, she slid under his arm, looked around at the flashes in the dusk.
"Frederick! It's a boy - he's fighting two adults… they seem to have exploding sticks… like…like guns."
Frederick looked around the tree, his belly roiling. Each flash took him back to battles on ships, cannons exploding, light flashing, flares, sheets of sail afire, men and boys screaming. Each flash made him want to drop to the ground, head cradled in his arms. He was shaking, could Anne feel that? Would she think him a coward?
But flashes, St Elmo's-like fire leaping between sticks. Not good, really, really not good he thought. He forced himself to keep watching around the tree trunk.
A boy, just a sprig, stood there, legs wide, almost shadowed by the dark. A sword in his left hand, with a stick, thin and long - -a wand in his right. About fifteen feet from him, two shadowy forms, tall and lean, wands in hand faced him, moving towards the boy.
"Holy God! Wizards!" He gasped, a punch of raw fear filled his belly. He'd heard of them, never seen any. They were rare. Rumour was rampant that Napoleon himself was one, or else had one working for him.
The three were still, silent for the moment, measuring each other.
A shout, Expelliarmus and Crucio, the two sticks cracked as one, explosive light burst from the sticks. The boy's stick flashed, a shouted Expelliarmus. An explosion of light between them, one of the two staggered back into the dark, stumbling, stick flying from hand.
A scream tore through the park. The child staggered back screaming and writhing in pain, his stick flying.
Frederick pulled Anne back, trying to protect her. The boy screamed on and on, writhing in pain, howling. Twisting, floating just above the ground. A cruel laugh, a shout of victory from the two.
When wizards warred the safest place, he'd heard, was to just not be seen. Get the hell away from them, run, hide. He held Anne pressed to the safety of the tree, covering her with his body.
Anne squirmed from his arms. She looked up at him, but not frightened. Rather, her face was raw with longing and a strange resolve mixed with grief. She slipped away from him, stepped around the tree and faced the three duellers.
With a quiet and graceful wave of her hands at the boy's attackers , she whispered Impedimenta. The boys two attackers, fell to the ground, unmoving. She turned and flicked her hand towards the boy as she clearly said, Leigheas. The boy dropped to the ground, silent, no longer writhing nor moaning. A quiet Teacht claíomh naofa as she waved her hand.The sword the boy had dropped appeared in her hand. She gave Frederick a look of utter loss, her shoulders collapsing almost.
He stared at Anne not quite understanding.
"You… you're a wizard." His voice broke with fright.
Ann stood, shaking, face raw and hopeless, her shoulders slumped. Turning from him, she walked towards the silent unmoving wizards, sword in her hand glowing softly blue in the dark fog of the park.
Startled out of his immobility and confusion Frederick dashed after her, his mind still not processing, shock still rippling through his gut. Grabbing her arm, spinning her, he pulled her back. "Anne, for God's sake, be careful, they're dangerous…"
"No… not now." She said firmly. "Not anymore."
Pulling away, she stood over the two adults. Both were clad completely in black leather, pants and short fitted Spencer-like jackets studded with sharp looking metal bits. Frederick was startled to see one of them was a woman, beautiful but with cruelty written across her face, her long black hair spread like a sea of darkness around her head.
A woman in pants befuddled him.
The man had long white hair, skin so white it was disturbing, and a tattoo on his hand of a grinning skull. The woman wore the same tattoo on her neck, and partly up her face, marring her marble beauty.
"Take their wands, Frederick. Use your gloves…" Anne whispered.
An order he obeyed unthinkingly. He stood, holding the surprisingly heavy sticks awkwardly. Looking down at the two unconscious wizards she flicked her bare hand and said at the same time, Ar ais. A flash of light, and both were gone. Startled the boy the boy had not gone, she whispered "Solas orga". A gentle golden glow rose around them, driving back the dark fog.
At first he felt, understood nothing. Then, sudden realization hit him full on. He staggered back, a sick gore rising in his belly, fear and a horror of her rising in his heart. She caught the look on his face and something broke within her.
CHAPTER 3 The Sisters of Mercy
Ann turned and stared at the unconscious boy at her feet, as if her heart, her back, her shoulders had been broken, then she turned back to him. Her face was wet with tears. Voice cracking, she said in a surprisingly calm, strong voice, "His wand, take it too… and pick him up. We need to hurry. Thank god the Sword is safe."
The child looked ten or so, could be no more than twelve. Frederick bent and lifted the boy. He was ice cold and still, breath weak and raggedy. His face was still twisted in pain, but nothing seemed hurt. The child smelt strange and was surprisingly light, as if he'd not been fed a long time.
Anne, taking her wrap, covered the sword and rolled it tight, held it awkwardly, like a stick in her hands.
"Hurry, others might come…" she whispered in the dark.
With that they heard a scurrying patter of feet, and both turned, tense, peering into the thick fog. Frederick was suddenly frightened for her. Anne stood straight, like a fighter, and faced the sound, her free hand up, as if ready for some wizardly fight.
Frederick started, scared for her, not of her. He held on to that, ready to drop the boy and grab Anne, pull her to safety. A shadowy form approached, monsterous in shape, wide at the bottom, its large head topped with bobbing a bobbing feather.
"Anne," a voice hissed. A woman's voice, so out of place he could not identify it.
Then Miss Elizabeth Elliott appeared out of the thickening dark fog. He was startled that Miss Elliott would be out in the dark, alone, and on foot. She did not seem frightened, nor worried, rather, she seemed blasé and cold as always, an umbrella in hand, ruffled and rose coloured. She stood, as if this was a normal walk, that it was totally normal for a lady, a baronets daughter, to walk unaccompanied through dark fog of a park to attend a battle between wizards.
"Anne," she hissed quietly, in her oh so cultured voice. "I thought I felt magic. What were you…"
She stopped, saw Frederick behind Ann, a body in his arms. Looked at the three of them, surprise in her voice.
"Is that a …"
"… A Wizard?" Frederick asked.
Miss Elliott ignored him. "… a Sacred Sword, sister?"
Miserably Anne said "Yes, I believe it is the Dragons Tooth."
"By the pricking of my thumb, something wicked this way come." The two sisters said to each other. Ignoring him, they stared at each other
Elizabeth, voice cool, looked at him with the child in his arms. "I thought that pricking was Wentworth. Or maybe just Mary and her prattle."
"I thought it was our cousin Elliott…." Anne said with a trace of bitterness.
He looked between the two of them. They were not upset, as he would have expected. Anne did not seem to be quaking inside, as he was. Rather she seemed as calm and collected as always. It was as if the two women were discussing the make of a new pelisse. His appreciation of his fiance rose, startled by her cool head. She would be fine upon a man of war, even on a ship of the line in battle as guns blazed, ships sank and men died.
Elizabeth stood taller, held her hand out. "This does not bode well, sister."
Anne, wordless handed her the sword, turned to him, took the three wands in her gloved hands. Her eyes were filled with a hopelessness that he'd only seen on those of the dying.
"Come," Elizabeth ordered, her voice, as always, cold and superior. "We must hurry, sister. Who knows what might follow."
She looked at Wentworth icily, and ordered. "Stay between us with the … boy…. And do not get in front of me nor behind Anne." With that she led him into the dark fog as if she had eyes of a cat. "We have magic to lay."
He was surprised when they stopped in front of his sister's door.
"Your sister and her husband left this morning I believe?" Elizabeth asked imperiously.
"Yes, a message last night. The admiral's brother… dying."
He'd seen the raw look of loss in William's eyes as he waited for Sophie to come down the stairs in the dark of morning, before first light, their carriage waiting in the mist. William looked haggard, older. The hug Frederick gave his sister was long and hard, and the hug he'd given the lost-looking admiral was harder but quick. Funny the traditions one picked up living away. Hugging.
A message of Edward or Sophie dying, arriving unexpected in the night, how would he take that? With less self-possession than the Admiral William Croft had, for sure.
"Good, we will dig in here, less windows than Laura Place." Elizabeth announced, "Anne, protect the doors, the windows."
Elizabeth swept regally into the house, pushing Rickettes aside as soon as he opened the door, thrusting her hat into the poor "footman's" hand.
Imperiously she ordered "Prepare a bedroom for Captain Wentworth's wounded guest, and order tea, sandwiches and soup to be served immediately in the library." before they had all made it through the door.
Frederick nodded to the startled Vengence sailor, to follow orders. He led Elizabeth up the stairs, as another crewman/footman scurried ahead of them to prepare a room. Thank God, it was Long, Frederick thought, who had two good legs. Several of the Admirals footmen he called "a-foot man".
As they turned the stair, he glanced down. Anne stood in front of the closed door, making complicated patterns with her hands. Their eyes caught, hers welled with grief. What was this? What was she grieving, about, what had she lost?
Elizabeth called down, "Anne, make sure they build a good hot fire in the library fireplace."
Anne nodded at Elizabeth's command. Frederick bristled, why did the damn cat treat her sister as a servant?
Long pushed open a door and Frederick heaved the boy onto the dark bed clothes. Elizabeth touched the boy's forehead, leaned over, whispered in the child's ear. Frederick noticed a flick of her fingers as she did.
Long, with his broad, port-town accent asked, "Send for the apothecary, sir?"
"What?" Elizabeth glanced up at him, ignored Frederick. "No, I … the child will be all right. The boy just needs sleep now."
She stood up, said to both, "Change him out of his wet clothes, and then, Frederick, you can attend us in the library."
With that, she did not sweep out of the room as he had expected, rather went to the window and looked out, fingers flicking.
Long cocked an eyebrow at him.
"Do as the captain ordered, Long." Frederick didn't smile as he said that. Lines deepened in Long's face, laugh lines.
"Aye aye Sir. Might need to steal some of your night clothes, the child would drown in the Admirals."
Frederick nodded, the boy would drown in his too. As he left to get them, he saw Elizabeth whispering, and her hands moving in complicated patterns at the window. Was there a glowing golden light shimmering there? She turned, did the same, looking at the child.
—-
When he returned with a night shirt, she was gone. Long had pulled the bed clothes down, had gotten the boys wet and muddy jacket off. The kid was deep asleep, his colour much better than the white faced child that he'd dropped on the bed a few moments ago, face etched deep with pain. The pain lines were gone. He had felt the boys hand earlier, it had been icy cold, almost no pulse, slight and fast; and now it was warm with the firm strong pulse of youth. The boy would live. He hadn't been sure he would before, when he'd taken him up in the garden.
"Well Captain, guess when you offers to marry one of them you get the lot of them."
"Humpft." Frederick said as he helped Long, trying to not think that that included the silly, pompous father, that harpy sister, and out in the country a selfish and snobby younger sister with a chatty country squire husband. One who was still very much in love with his future wife. Too, that she-dragon, bitter Lady Russell - he supposed that one would very much be family.
"I must say, sir, Miss Anne is the best kind. Miss Elliott now…" He looked at Frederick. "Quite the cat."
Frederick stood straight, looked at Long. "Mr. Long, we are no longer on a ship. We never talk about our employers…"
"Whatever, sir. Just sayin'".
"Lets get these pants off…"
Undoing the buttons he pulled. They both fell silent, startled, looked at each other. Frederick pulled the blanket up over the child, and then both scurried out.
—
"Anne, Miss Elizabeth," The two sisters, whispering together by the library fire, looked up as he strode in.
"Oh, what is it Wentworth?" Elizabeth said exasperated, as if she were speaking to a recalcitrant servant. "How is the boy?"
"I believe… the boy's a girl."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Believe, or know? There is a difference, you know."
Anger flared in Frederick's gut. God, how had Anne lived with this harpy for so many years? He could have saved her back in '06, just taken her away with him, no questions asked, if he'd done what his heart wanted. Pig-head, that he was.
A startled "Oh!" as Anne, leapt up and pushed passed him, flying up the stairs.
Elizabeth followed at a more sedate pace, turned, as Long came in with tea, "From your, ahem, naval experience Captain, and your failed seduction of that Musgrove girl, I would really think you know the difference between a boy child and a girl, rather than just believe."
He grabbed her arm. She turned to him, rising taller on her toes. "Captain, that is not how a gentleman handles a lady."
"Miss Elizabeth. I am clearly not a gentleman, and ladies don't act the way you do. I want you to stop ordering my… my.… Anne… around." A slow deep in-breath, blood beating hard in his neck vein.
Still holding her arm, he let his anger seep into his voice, "And… with this marriage, I have bad news for the both of us. We will now be stuck in the same little dory for the rest of our lives. Best we learn to row together."
"Row? Oh, how nautical. Yes, we will be in the same dory. As long as you listen to orders, Captain, all will be fine."
With that she yanked herself from his hand and was gone.
"Damn that woman."
Long chuckled, Frederick glared at the ex-bosun.
He turned, poured himself a whiskey, and drank the whole thing in one shot. This was not how he had imagined his first evening being affianced would pass. He'd thought he'd take Anne to the theatre. Rather, empty glass in hand, he stared at a sword that still glowed blue in the flickering golden light of the fire in the grate, leaning against the chair Elizabeth had sat in.
He knew swords, preferring a cutlass himself. This one was old, well made, a beautiful piece really. The thing that caught his attention was that it was not a decorative piece, this one hand been heavily used, dented and knicked. It felt ancient. Another strange thing about the sword, rather than casting back that warm golden light of the cheery fire, if flickered a cold, cold blue as if St Elmo's' fires played over it.
Turning, he went back upstairs.