After a refreshing solitary morning ride, Hartwell made his way to the breakfast parlour, where to his surprise, he only found Mr and Mrs Gardiner.

"I am beginning to see a pattern," the former mused by way of greeting. "It seems we parents are so used to being roused by our children, that no matter how late we retire, we simply cannot sleep late."

Hartwell chuckled in reply. "Where is our offspring anyway?" he inquired. "I had expected to see them here."

"It transpires that your Miss Kenway thought it best to spare us their noise in our morning-after blues, so she had them break their fast in the nursery."

He smirked. "Gotta love Miss Kenway and her perspicuity. I am in fact a little hungover."

"Nothing a good breakfast won't fix," was Mrs Gardiner's opinion.

He agreed, and began to pile eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, tomatoes and toast on his plate.

He dug in with gusto; the hot food did him good.

And while he was at it, would this perhaps be a good time to address Mrs Gardiner about his quandary? For the sake of his pride though, he would prefer to have her alone, or at least in the semi-privacy of a larger group, where they would not be easily overheard. But…

But at that moment, a frowning Darcy walked in and made the question moot.

"There goes your theory, Edward," Mrs Gardiner chuckled.

Darcy's frown got puzzled for a moment; then it settled down again on his brow.

"Nah." Mr Gardiner regarded his new nephew with a devilish air. "He is just a little premature. I bet he will join the ranks before the year is out."

Now Darcy looked questioningly from one to the other. "What ranks?"

"Parenthood," Hartwell enlightened him.

"Oh." He sat down with his plate and absent-mindedly speared a sausage.

"How is Mrs Darcy this morning?" Mrs Gardiner inquired. "Is she still asleep?"

"Yes, this is the first time I have seen you at breakfast without her," her husband teased.

Darcy sighed. "No. She must have imbibed far more than I realized last night. Or else something seriously disagreed with her. I am afraid she is quite ill this morning."

Mrs Gardiner put down her cup. "Would you like me to go and see her?" And seeing Darcy's hesitation, she added, "I am used to nursing my own children when they are sick, and I have even nursed Lizzy a few times when she got sick while staying with us."

With a faint air of relief, Darcy consented, and the men continued their breakfast in silence.

Once he had finished his, Hartwell excused himself to go and see his children. Besides, it was crucial that he confer with Miss Kenway on how to handle Henry's budding lovelife.

"Papa!" Ginny espied him as soon as he came around the door, and ran into his arms. "How was the dance?"

"Fine." He kissed her.

"Fine?! Just fine?!"

"Loud? Crowded? What would you have me say?"

"You need to tell us all about it! Come on," she pleaded. "Rosie and I, we want to know everything."

He smirked. "I believe it is a ladies' prerogative to endlessly discuss dances. You will have to wait for Miss Bennet and Georgiana to wake up." (The designation 'aunt' for Georgiana had quickly worn off with his eldest this past week; they were only a few years apart after all.)

"But did you dance?" his daughter persisted.

"Yes, in fact I did."

"With whom?"

"Once with Georgiana, and once with Mrs Darcy."

The two girls stared at him in disbelief. "Only two dances?!"

"Yes." He sighed. Two dances had been more than enough…

But Ginny shook her head in resignation. "Going to a dance, and… So which ones?"

He looked at her blankly, and quickly getting exasperated with her father, Ginny clarified, "Which dances did you dance?"

"Oh." He shook his head. "I am sorry, Ginny," he was forced to admit. "I am afraid I don't remember."

"Oh!" she huffed, and stamped her foot. "Papa, you are hopeless! Next time you go to a dance, will you please remember everything? We poor stay-at-homes are depending on you!"

"Ginny," Miss Kenway chided quietly in the background.

The girl sighed, and hugged him. "I'm sorry. You know that I love you, Papa, even if you can be a bit dense sometimes."

He chuckled, and hugged her back. "Well, I suppose you have a point. I mean, only two dances, and I cannot even recall which ones? That is pretty pathetic, I agree. I will try and do better next time, alright? At least on the remembering part."

"But you never go to dances," his daughter pouted. "How am I ever to learn what happens at a dance?"

"I suggest you ask Georgiana and Miss Bennet," was his wry advice. "I am sure they will be thrilled to tell you all about it – and far more detailed than I ever could."

Reluctantly, the girls acquiesced in that, and he took the opportunity to ask about their own dance with Miss Kenway yesterday.

Ginny and Rosalie groaned in unison. "It wasn't much of a dance," Ginny complained, casting a scathing look at her brother. "Henry flatly refused to stand up with us!"

"Which left only Julian who could actually do the steps," Rosalie filled in.

"Yes, and then Miss Kenway offered to help out, but then Philip didn't want to play; he thinks dance music is boring." This time her younger brother was the recipient of her glare. "So in the end, we could only dance one couple at a time, and that's not much fun."

Hartwell bit back a chuckle. "I am sorry to hear it. But as a matter of fact, that is something I do remember from last night. For there is one hard rule when attending a dance: there are never enough gentlemen to satisfy all the ladies. So you might as well get used to it."

The girls scowled at that, but as Hartwell moved on to admire the complex structure Philip and the two Gardiner brothers were building on the floor, they went back to the table and joined little Margaret in her drawing.

Lastly, Henry was so engrossed in his book that he could scarcely be bothered to return his father's greeting, so with an inviting gesture, Hartwell asked Miss Kenway to join him at the far end of the room.

"I am sorry to hear about the failed dance," he said. "I hope it was not too much to handle? Considering that we left you with more than twice as many charges as usual."

"No, it was alright," she assured him. "There were some ruffled feathers to smooth, but we managed well enough." She smiled. "It was actually nice to have a few more. You can play totally different games with a group like this, even if Henry considered everything to be too childish for a man of his age. He seems to fancy himself quite grown up all of a sudden."

Hartwell sighed, and rubbed his neck. "Yes, about Henry… It has come to my attention that he has fallen in love with Miss Bennet, and…"

"Oh!" She had a quiet laugh. "Miss Bennet, is it?"

"You knew?"

"Well, he never said who it was, but yes, he came to me the other day to ask my advice on women." She related the gist of their conversation, leaving Hartwell to shake his head.

"I had better take him aside one of these days and explain how these things work. Including a timeline, before he gets himself in trouble with a premature proposal."

She agreed. "And a lesson in humility might not go amiss either, but I thought that might come better from you. I confess I could barely keep my countenance when he stated so blithely that no one would ever refuse him."

Hartwell shook his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "The problem is, that in essentials, his deduction is correct: no lady would ever dare refuse him. But I agree: it is not a healthy attitude."

He sighed, and looked back at his son. His dear eldest. Did he really have to grow up so quickly?

With all the adults having to recuperate from the previous night's entertainment, the day was a calm one. Georgiana and Miss Bennet, and even a recovered Mrs Darcy finally appeared for luncheon, and spent a happy afternoon discussing their reminiscences of the dance. Ginny, Rosalie and Henry hung upon their lips, but the gentlemen soon began to look for a way to escape the chatter. Going shooting was discussed and discarded as being too strenuous today, and they ended up in the billiards room instead – all except Richard, who found himself commandeered to lead a bear hunt in the Canadian forests.

It was only after Mrs Gardiner returned from tucking her children into bed that he saw his chance to approach her.

Georgiana and Miss Bennet were sharing confidences in one corner, and the gentlemen and Mrs Darcy were debating politics in another (with a fatigued looking Mrs Darcy leaning against her husband's arm, and for once more inclined to listen than to speak). So when Mrs Gardiner sat herself by the fire and took up some sewing, Hartwell quickly excused himself from the politicial discussion and moved toward her.

"Mrs Gardiner, might I prevail upon you for some advice?"

She looked slightly surprised, but invited him to sit. "What can I help you with?"

"Well…" He looked down on his hands. "I am in a bit of a quandary, and when Mrs Darcy heard of it, she told me you might be able to help me find a way out."

The lady smiled. "She is a dear girl, my niece, but I am afraid she has a somewhat overblown faith in my wisdom. But if you wish to confide in me, I will be happy to see if there is anything I can do for you."

"Yes. Well…" He cleared his throat. Man, this was awkward. But now that he had started, there was nothing for it but to plough on. "I don't know in how far you are acquainted with my history?"

She raised her eyebrows. "In what sense?"

"My marriage."

She shook her head. "I have gathered that you have lost your wife, but other than that… no."

He grimaced. "Well, she was not much of a wife to begin with…" And somehow, the whole story just poured out: his being hunted to the point of paranoia; Agnes's successful deceit that enticed him to seek refuge with her and got them married too hastily; the disastrous first years of their marriage, so full of clashing values, bitter conflicts and raw disappointment, leaving them only to mutually contempt and despise each other; and finally her ultimate decampment to town once she considered her marital duties completed, where her openly adulterous lifestyle in the end caused her demise.

Mrs Gardiner proved to be an excellent listener indeed. In spite of them being of similar age, she exuded some sort of motherly trust, that made it easy to confide in her. And when he finally fell silent, she observed in a quiet, neutral tone, "It sounds as if her death was actually a relief for you."

It was indeed.

He remembered that day as if it were yesterday: an ordinary Saturday morning on his estate. It was August; the weather had been warm and sunny all week, and that day promised to be no exception.

He had promised the children to spend the whole day outside with them; nothing truly extraordinary in their household, but they all loved such outings, and expectations were high as always.

He had already dismissed his valet. The man's help was certainly appreciated with shaving, but unless he was to dress to impress, he preferred to dress himself.

He was just slipping into his waistcoat when there was a knock at the door.

"Come," he called.

It was Barrett, his valet, holding out a letter. "An express just came from London, sir."

"Thank you." It was from his father, he saw.

He nodded to Barrett as he broke the seal, and the man disappeared. He unfolded the sheet and quickly scanned the text.

Wait. What did he just read?!

He read the first lines again, overfocusing, really taking in every little word to make sure there could be no mistake.

Son,

I am afraid I bear you bad tidings. We just got word that
Agnes has perished last week from some aggressive illness.
Obviously, she has already been buried…

He closed his eyes and sagged against the wall. "Thank God…" he breathed.

It was over.

His nightmare of a marriage was truly over.

After eleven years in prison, he had finally been released.

He was free.

He felt tears streaking down his face as he slid down to the floor.

But for once, he did not care.

For once, he would allow himself to cry out the frustration from the past eleven years – the self-loathing, the anger, the despair, the mortification, the powerlessness, the self-reproach, the hate, the shame, the helplessness, the failure, the guilt. He just wept – the happy tears of relief.

He had no idea how long he had sat there when there was another knock at his door.

"Come," he called without thinking.

The door opened at a crack and his nine-year-old daughter stuck in her head. "Papa, can I take the…?" Her eyes widened. "Are you crying?!"

Belatedly, he brushed at his tears before reaching out to her. She rushed immediately into his arms.

"My Ginny," he mumbled lovingly, and pressed a kiss in her summerwhite hair. "I love you, sweetie."

"Are you ill?" she inquired anxiously.

"No." He hugged her tight. "In fact, I am better than I have been in years. Much better."

"Then why are you crying?"

He couldn't very well tell her that he was so utterly relieved about the death of her mother, could he…

"I just got a letter from Grandfather. He… he writes that your mother has died."

"Oh." Silence. But then she sat up. "Is that why you were crying?! I thought you and her didn't like each other very much."

He looked up sharply. "What gave you that idea?" He thought he had adequately hidden his distaste for their mother – if only by never bringing her up in conversation.

His daughter shrugged. "I remember the last time she was here, when Philip was born. You two were always fighting."

His breath caught. She had been four – yet she remembered that?! It must have made quite an impression… "I am sorry, Ginny."

She frowned. "What for?"

"You are right: I did not like your mother very much. But she is still your mother. And now she is gone."

The girl had an indifferent shrug. "She was never here in the first place; it's not as if I shall miss her. I barely even remember what she looked like."

The tragedy of her words had struck him like lightning, and he had roughly pulled her close again. "I am sorry, Ginny," he had strangled out. "I am sorry I could not give you a real mother."

She had hugged him tight in return. "At least we have the best father in the world."

Henry and Philip had been similarly unaffected by the news, even if Philip at first had thought his favourite nurse was the one who had died. It was universal, he supposed; he and Gregory, too, and later Richard as well, had always been much closer to their nurses than to their mother.

Either way, their day out in the end had been glorious; one of the best days of his life. Never had he felt so free – even if he did develop a nagging guilt later on about feeling nought but relief at the death of his wife.

Mrs Gardiner's voice brought him back to the present. "So what is it that you would like my help with?"

He focused back on her, and cleared his throat. And glanced around. But no one was paying any attention to them.

He lowered his voice. "I have been thinking of remarriage lately. Seeing the happiness and the love between Darcy and his wife, and between you and your husband as well, has really brought home to me how lonely I am. I would love to have what you are all having, but… I have no idea how to go about finding it. And on top of that, I am scared to death that I might end up with another Agnes."

She nodded slowly.

"Furthermore," he continued in a more agitated tone, "My brother pointed out to me this week that Henry and Ginny will have to come out in society in a few years, and they will undoubtedly be facing the same nightmares as I did. And the way things are, I would be of no use in protecting them. I am sure you saw the state I was in yesterday; I came close to running from the hall screaming. And that was a small country assembly three days from town. I cannot even begin to countenance guarding my own back and my children's in a London ballroom with all its vipers and rakes and fortune hunters. The only way I could protect my children in such an environment would be if I don't have to be equally worried about my own hide. And the only way to accomplish that would be to go in there with a wife on my arm, proclaiming that I am no longer up for grabs."

Mrs Gardiner suddenly held up her hand. "Hold it right there, sir."

He started back a little in surprise.

"Did you not tell me just now, that you basically married your wife for the sole reason of getting away from your hunters?"

"Yes…"

"I may be misunderstanding you, but to me, it sounds as if you are going down that same path now: marrying to protect yourself from the hunters, in order to be able to protect your children."

His breath caught, and a moment of contemplation could find no fault in her logic.

He hid his head in his hands. "By George, I am a fool…"

She patted his arm encouragingly. "Now none of that, sir. The strategy itself is sound. It is just not the best one when you are looking to find happiness in marriage."

She waited until he looked up again before continuing quietly, "Marrying to get away from something rarely leads to happiness. The foundation is already wrong. I have no doubt that your worries for the children's coming-out are realistic. But try and keep those worries separate from your wish to find happiness in marriage. Those are two different things."

He nodded slowly. "I thank you for your insight, Mrs Gardiner. I believe you may have saved me already."

She smiled. "In fact," she elaborated, "Marrying to find happiness will automatically provide you with the protection you need. Whereas you already know that marrying to get away from your hunters is no guarantee for finding happiness at all. Rather the opposite, I dare say: the risk to end up with another Agnes, as you put it, would be substantial in that case."

He heaved a sigh. "But how can I tell whether a lady wants me for myself or for my status and riches? Where do I even find one? You saw me at the assembly yesterday; I am so incredibly tense from watching my own back, that I have no attention to spare to actually look at a woman. And in spite of what my brother says, I doubt that will improve much with more frequent exposure."

"Well, to start with the second question: do you have any criteria in mind?"

He frowned. "Criteria for what exactly?"

"What are you looking for in a wife? I mean plain practical matters, such as age, station in life, does she have to be a maiden or are you willing to consider a widow. It is helpful to be aware of your wishes, before considering where to find such a lady."

"Ah." He frowned for a moment. "Well, one thing I have already decided is that I would prefer someone within reasonable range of my own age. Definitely not an 18-year-old debutante; I want a partner, not another daughter. But I fear that narrows down the field tremendously."

"Which is good," she assured him.

"It is?"

"Yes. Considering ladies who do not even meet your most basic wishes is just a waste of time."

"Oh." Silence. "But are not most ladies in their thirties and forties already married?"

"Most of them will be, yes. But the war has left a large surplus of spinsters and widows in its wake these past twenty years or so, for whom there simply is no husband available. So even if you would prefer to marry a maiden in her thirties, your chances are still pretty good."

He pondered that for a few minutes, before coming to a decision. "I don't think she would have to be a maiden. I am a widower myself after all; I can see myself marrying a widow."

"With or without children?"

"Um…" He scratched his head. "It would probably be easier without, but… Well, if they are pleasant enough, and get along with mine, I might consider it."

She chuckled. "Fair enough. Next issue: her station. You are a peer yourself. Do you want to marry within the upper circles, or…?"

"No." His reply was vehement. "I have come to distrust the ton as a whole. And I very much do not want to go to London to find a wife."

"So have you given any thought to what you do want?"

He again thought over the matter for a few minutes, and at last admitted bashfully that he would actually like to find someone like Mrs Darcy. "Born into the landed gentry would be ideal, for upon marrying me, she would become mistress of a huge estate. But she doesn't have to come from the top tiers; Mrs Darcy is managing well enough, too. Alternatively, someone who is intelligent enough to learn, and eager to do so."

"Even a tradesman's daughter?"

He frowned for a moment, but then he nodded. "Yes, even a tradesman's daughter, as long as she is willing to learn. I know it is not the done thing, but as a widower, I am far less restricted in whom I can and cannot marry. I know of widowed peers who have married courtesans; a tradesman's daughter should hardly raise an eyebrow then. And if Darcy can defy everyone's expectations, so can I."

She smiled involuntarily, but sobered immediately. "But consider: would your family accept such a girl?"

"Those whose opinion I care about – yes, although my father would probably baulk a bit at first. The others quite possibly not. But I can live with that."

"And would you be willing to consider going even lower? Say, a servant?"

That question clearly took him aback. He took a minute to consider the ramifications of such a choice. But in the end, he found himself forced to shake his head. "I am afraid the gap would be too big. I don't think that would work."

"Good. So those are your basic parameters: the daughter of a lower country gentleman, or a tradesman's daughter; age, let us say thirties or early forties; either a maiden spinster, or a widow, but in that case preferably one without children. Does that sound right?"

He nodded thoughtfully.

"Then that is your starting point. You can add other desirable characteristics as you see fit, but there is no point in looking beyond this most basic group; anyone outside this group you can simply consider to be out of your league."

He rubbed his face. "I dare say that clarifies matters a bit, yes. But where do I find such ladies? They sound like the type I would have to meet at assemblies."

"Not necessarily," was her opinion. "If I were in your place, I would start by looking around my local community."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You mean on the estate?"

"Yes, and the towns around there – Bakewell, Rowsley, Darley Dale. Small places where people know you."

That was right: Mrs Gardiner had grown up around here.

"Mingle more often in the town; even attend local dances if you can manage it. Or other gatherings. Ladies who fit your parameters can be found in every community; you just never looked at them in that way. And you would be far less vulnerable to compromises etcetera in your own territory, among people who depend on you for their livelihood. At least I suspect you are a good and conscientious master?"

He grimaced. "I would like to think so, yes."

She nodded. "Then I would indeed say: start in your own community. Especially with your valid concerns about whether women are interested in your person or in your money and status, it would be a major advantage for you to have known the ladies in question for many years already."

He frowned. "How so? How does that preclude them from wanting me for my money and status?"

"It does not," she admitted earnestly. "Not really. It would be an advantage, yes, but unfortunately, there is no foolproof guarantee in any case. But at least with ladies whom you have known for years already, you would in all likelihood have some idea about their character already. About whether or not you can trust them. And your local acquaintances would be able to share their insights on them with you as well. That is as good a headstart as you can get."

He was still mulling that over, when Mrs Gardiner added, "But the most important thing to keep in mind is that love is a choice. It is easy enough to fall in love with a pretty face and pleasant manners. But to truly love someone warts and all, that is a conscious choice you make. And if it is a happy marriage you seek, it is of paramount importance that both parties make that choice. The choice to commit to each other; to love each other, support each other and care for each other, no matter what life throws at you. For it is only when both partners are able to place the other's needs and wishes before their own, that they will be able to find happiness together."

He nodded pensively. That was indeed something he had noticed in his cousin and his bride: they were forever trying to bring out the other's smile.

"I thank you, Mrs Gardiner," he said. "You have given me much to consider."

The final days of their visit simply flew by.

Ginny and Rosalie were making the most of their last days together. Their pleas to be allowed to visit each other had indeed been approved by their parents – but for later in the year, not right now. So in the face of their imminent separation, they spent every waking moment together, including the nights. Rosalie had introduced her sisterless friend to the ultimate form of girl talk: at night, and preferably in bed hiding under the covers. Ginny had embraced the concept wholeheartedly, with the result that the girls were beginning to adopt fashionable town hours.

Philip tried to pry Georgiana away from the other girls whenever he could, to drag her off to the music room with him for one more lesson, no, one more! Only one more, please!

And Henry kept making calf's eyes at Miss Bennet.

Now that he had calmed down, Hartwell, too, noted that the admiration was indeed entirely one-sided. Miss Bennet showed herself to be kind enough not to rebuff him or to ridicule him to his face, but although she did giggle about him with Georgiana behind his back, she certainly did not encourage him in his adoration.

Still, it would be good to make sure, so when he saw an opportunity to address her one morning, he could not let it pass.

"Miss Bennet, might I have a word with you, please?"

"Yes, sir?" She coloured, and could not meet his eyes. Yes, she had been timid around him from the beginning, preferring to avoid addressing him at all.

Better put her at ease. "Miss Bennet, you are a lovely young lady, and I could not help but notice that my son seems to be quite taken with you. I am glad to see he has such good taste."

She coloured even deeper, but ventured no reply.

"And I just wanted to make sure. He is still so young… I hope he has not raised your expectations? For I am sure you realize that he is by no means ready for such things."

"Oh no, sir!" she cried, finally looking up. "I mean, he is a nice enough boy, I suppose, but… Well, he is merely a boy."

Hartwell's most comforting smile broke through. "I am glad we can agree on that. I hope his mooning over you has not made you uncomfortable?"

"No, sir." She giggled a little. "I admit it was rather flattering, having him compliment me on anything and everything, but he…" Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

"He is simply too young?"

"Yes, he is," she agreed. And blushed. "I am sure he will make someone a proper husband one day – in ten years or so. But not yet. Not for me. I can only hope he will quickly get over it."

"I am sure he will," he assured her.

The only worry that hung over the company these final days was Mrs Darcy's odd indisposition. Ever since the Lambton assembly, she was forced to keep to her rooms due to sickness until luncheon, then was surprisingly fit in the afternoon, and markedly tired in the evenings.

Darcy was understandably worried, and began talking about sending for his trusted physician in London.

But a quiet talk with Mrs Gardiner changed everything.

When they appeared again, Darcy was suddenly wearing a big goofy grin, and Mrs Darcy – with her hand protectively on her belly – literally bubbled with happy excitement. They could not keep the news to themselves for even a minute!

"Everyone! It is still far too early to tell for sure, but according to my aunt here, my miserable symptoms these past days may very well indicate that I am with child!"

Darcy kissed his wife full on the mouth in front of his cheering relatives, and immediately, pandemonium broke loose. The happy couple was surrounded by well-wishers: Miss Bennet hugged her sister within an inch of her life, Georgiana squealed about becoming an aunt, Darcy had to shake hands and accept hearty slaps on his back, and a grinning Mr Gardiner smugly reminded Hartwell, "What did I say? Within the year!"

The evening's celebration of Twelfth Night consequently was even more exuberant than usual, and the company found much additional amusement seeing Darcy suddenly treat his wife as if she were made of eggshell china. She let him have his way for now, but from what he had seen of the fiery and independent Mrs Darcy these weeks, Hartwell doubted she would indulge him for long.

The morning following saw a true exodus from Pemberley. Among the clamour of promises to write and to visit, the carriages bound for Matlock and London were boarded, and left for their respective homes under enthusiastic waving.

Once the Gardiners were out of sight, Hartwell heaved a sigh and leaned back in the cushions. It had been a wonderful two weeks with his relatives and new relations, but now he was happy to head home again.

Across from him, poor lovelorn Henry was moping in his corner.

And by the other window, Philip and Ginny were regaling Miss Kenway with all their exploits from last night. As the good children's companion that she was, she displayed all the required surprise, horror, amusement and sympathy at the appropriate times, encouraging the children to elaborate their stories even further.

She caught his eye for a moment and shared a quick grin.

He chuckled in return.

Come to think of it, she was one of those ladies on his estate within the specified age range whom he had known for years. And besides, he had always liked her. Would she perhaps fit his freshly established parameters for a possible wife?

.

.

Author's Note: Before anyone starts ranting about how Hartwell impossibly can be helpless and powerless in the face of his wife's behaviour: this is how he *feels*. I assure you he would have tried everything within his power to control her, apart from serious physical abuse of which I (being a product of the 20th/21st century) simply cannot see him capable.

And yes, in their backstory, I know of at least two instances where he did banish her to some cottage in the middle of nowhere, one of which will be covered (or at least mentioned) in Master of Pemberley. But Agnes as I see her is as slippery as an eel, and has many rich and powerful friends (and lovers) in town, who would have gotten her out of there as soon as she managed to contact them. An honourable guy like Hartwell just can't win against that. Hence his feelings of helplessness and powerlessness.

Edit: Would anyone be interested in a timeline of their backstory? I imagine it might be helpful. Let me know in the comments!