Chapter Ten

Sent away for sake of regard
But confronted by a storm of fear
And wild accusations permitted
To wound the ones most dear…

If he had ever felt awkward around her before, he certainly felt discomfiture at its best as he sat across from her at the dining table, his eyes oddly concentrating on her restless hands. She was dressed elegantly in a midnight blue evening gown, with a neckline rimmed in gold thread and the high waistline of her dress circled with a wide ribbon of matching color.

He blinked and was reminded of why the two of them were gathered together and looked up to face her, but her head was turned to the side, her eyes wandering around as she examined the room out of boredom or impatience, which was very much like her to do so. To resist being idle even in dull situations.

Clearing his throat quietly, so as not to catch her too off guard, he said, "Hattie?"

Her head pivoted to him instantly, her eyes wide and stunned at the intrusion, but her tight face soon relaxed into a weak smile and her restless hands took hold of the food utensils lying before her before she answered him.

"Yes, Mr. Calamy?"

"I give you leave to go back to your home or back to Godolphin. I won't be leaving for some while and so I'll be here to take care of my mother." He tried to state it as gently as possible but without sacrificing too much of the firmness he still wanted to attain.

"Oh," came Hattie's meek, squeaky reply. She poked uselessly at the plate of food in front of her and she laughed miserably. "Well, I suppose it's common sense for me to leave, right Peter?" she continued, really not expecting him to reply. She knew the answer already. Of course it was logical for her to leave. But she didn't quite understand why she had a tinge of the feeling of wanting to stay.

"I am still eternally grateful for the service you have done, Hattie," added Peter, noticing her forced grin. "You are welcome to visit any time you want."

She nodded subtly.

Even if she did not comprehend some things as quickly as others, she still knew very well what Peter was saying. She didn't believe his gilded words for one moment, and she felt her anger build up again but she bit her tongue in order to keep the aggravation from popping out in words she knew she'd regret later on.

"Will you… excuse me for a moment, Peter?" she asked as her storming thoughts eventually settled on a resolution. If she stayed one moment longer in Peter's presence, she'd lose control over her emotions.

At once, he took her question as a negative reply to what he had said to her, and he urged her quickly to sit back down.

"I didn't mean it like that, Harriet. I—"

"Of course you didn't," she lied, forming a faux smile on her lips and about to rise from her seat again.

He stopped her.

"Harriet, please," he implored, about ready to get up from his seat as well so that he could be prepared to run after her should she dart out of the hall. "I'm sorry. I'm not driving you out. I just thought…"

His apology eased her temper and she hesitantly fell back into her seat, her eyes watching him coolly. "Though what?" she finished.

"Thought that you wanted to leave." She released a sharp sigh, insulted by what he had said and shot out of her seat more angrily than before. Peter shook his head at himself internally for saying the wrong thing to her once again, and he wondered why he would even dare to try to hurt her unintentionally. He should have known that this new Harriet took things quite personally.

"Harriet!" he called, abandoning his seat and going after her. "Stop, please. Why do you—" He realized he was talking aloud and cut off his question before she became even more annoyed with him, but she heard it and spun around, her rigid face cross and bitter.

"Why do I what?" she demanded.

"Nothing, nothing," murmured Peter hurriedly, keeping his voice soft to show that he intended her no harm at all, but again, her reaction moved him to chastise his supposedly thorough understanding of Miss Harriet Abigail Neville.

"Stop lying to me. What were you going to ask?" she yelled, her shrill voice echoing in the silent home.

Please her or tell the truth?, debated Peter, glancing at her for less than a second before shifting his eyes to the floor. Tell the truth... He met her eyes again, the repentant expression on his visage changing into one of full seriousness.

"Why do you always make me run after you?" he asked earnestly. Harriet did not anticipate his question and was taken aback by such a thought. Why?, she thought to herself. And after seeking her mind for reasons, she discovered that she had no reason to give.

"I…I don't make you run after me, Peter," she said, her voice minutely trembling. "You just always follow. So perhaps the question you want to ask is why do you always choose to follow?"

He looked down and thought about her response, ending his evaluation with a smile that troubled her.

"Or perhaps the question is, why do you always run away?"

She did not expect that comeback either, and she scowled at him with taut lips and narrowed eyes before pivoting sharply on her heel and running away from him again. And he let her go that time.

The night was relatively late, and the house was even more silent, with rarely a sound disrupting the heavy quiet, except, perhaps for a few anxious footsteps.

Harriet paced in the parlor, a wine glass in one hand and an opened letter hanging in her other. The effects of the wine had flushed her pallid cheeks, but her brows were still knitted with agitation and serious uneasiness. And more baffling was that she mumbled words to herself.

"A cloud was my mother… father was the wind… son is the stream…" She looked back at the letter in her hand and peered at it viciously, her nose almost gliding against the paper as she read what she was seeking. And after finding nothing of use, she took a swig of her wine and tossed the piece of paper over her shoulder, letting it fall gently to the ground like a leaf in autumn.

With a sigh, she sat on a sofa and continued to sip at her wine, her eyes all the while glaring at the piece of paper she had so willingly abandoned, but it seemed now that she never wanted to be rid of it at all, for now she could not stop looking at it. And it would only be a matter of time before she'd rise from her seat and snatch up the paper again, reading it just as passionately as before.

Peter had deemed her asleep and at peace in her room, and had passed by her closed bedroom door as he made his way downstairs for a last house check before finally enclosing himself in slumber as well. However, as he neared the last steps of the staircase, he noticed the light coming from the parlor and the incoherent prattle coming from it.

"Harriet?" he dared to ask, nearing the entrance with uncertainty. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to know what she was doing at such an hour.

At the voice, Harriet rose from her seat clumsily and turned towards the entrance to the parlor, the letter and wine glass still in her hands.

"Peter!" she exclaimed, her shocked face bending into her common mask of annoyance. "Don't you dare scare me like that!"

"It was not my intent," Peter replied, as was every other time I vexed you, he added inwardly. But to suppress his own bitterness, he kept off of the subject of useless accusations and asked her what she was doing.

"It's my brother's letter," she explained, showing the paper to him as she snuck in another gulp of wine while Peter examined the paper. "He loves to play games me with and he wrote a riddle in his letter which I am determined to solve. However, I have not been able to solve any of his puzzles in my lifetime. He always had to reveal them to me."

Peter glanced at her, smiling as she filled herself with the mellow ruby liquid and then returning the letter to her as he took a seat on the sofa. He said nothing to her and merely stared at the wine bottle she had resting on the small table in the middle of the room, relaxed and disinterested in her dilemma.

"You have nothing to say?" posed Harriet, more amazed than provoked by his silence. Still, he said nothing, and she sat next to him with a huff shooting from her nose. "Peter."

He gave her his attention, although he had done so without saying a word and she eyed him coolly, wondering if he was up to a very misplaced jest or was entirely serious about his detachment.

"You are an expert at solving riddles, Peter," she said. "Will you help me?"

"It's just a riddle, Hattie," returned Peter. He found her pursuit to solve the puzzle futile. It was just a simple riddle. Nothing important would ever blossom from it, and so he wondered why she wanted to solve it so terribly. What did she see in its outcome that he did not?

"So it is." She looked away from him and looked at the letter hopelessly. "But riddle or no riddle, it is still a problem left unsolved."

"So it is…" murmured Peter, still not understanding her reasoning, but he beckoned for the paper again and she gave it to him. And after reading it to himself again, he read aloud the riddle for both of them to hear.

"A cloud was my mother,
The wind is my father,
My son is the cool stream,
And my daughter is the fruit of the land.
A rainbow is my bed,
The earth my final resting place,
And I'm the torment of man."

"Any ideas, Peter?" asked Harriet, making no attempt to solve it but relying on his input only.

"It's rain," he stated simply. "Rain comes from clouds, and wind bears it everywhere. It fills the streams, and nourishes the earth, and—"

"I considered that," interrupted Harriet abruptly. "But 'torment of man'?"

"Tears, Hattie. When Man is tormented, he sheds tears." She smiled and her closed, curling lips eventually parted into a full grown laugh and she laughed lightly, almost child-like, and Peter questioned her incentive for such random gaiety.

"Not all men," she said as her giggles died down. "Not you."

He wondered if her remark was a compliment or insult, it could have gone either way with her resentful personality, and he decided that to ask what she meant by it would only stop her laughs, which he enjoyed far better than her scolds.

"Really, Hattie? You find that so?" he sighed, folding up the letter and handing it to her as he rubbed his head. The night was late and he could feel a yawn wrenching his mouth open.

"Of course," she chimed, still grinning. "I have never seen you weep. You did not cry when we were children and you do not cry now. Nothing has changed for you."

Peter continued to rub his forehead in the hopes of keeping his eyes open at the action.

"Indeed," he answered softly before standing, bidding the lady good night and then heading up the stairs for the period of rest he longed for.

In the morning, Harriet prepared for her inevitable departure from the Calamy home and was ready to leave before the sun had even risen to clear away the dull, thin grey sea of fog encompassing the wide, brisk countryside. She had thought about her conversation with Peter, even if she had been partly inebriated and thus somewhat incapable of truly comprehending honest banter, and wondered if her perceptions of him were even in the least bit correct. She did not know if he wept at all for any reason, and she wasn't entirely certain if she'd like to know that he did. Did he cry when he learned of his mother's detrimental illness?, she pondered. Or had he remained fully composed? Acting and appearing just fine when in truth, worries overwhelmed his mind?

She tossed such thoughts away as she examined herself in the mirror, her fingers itching to rearrange her hair, although a maid had perfectly fixed it for her. She noted her pale face with a frown on her thin lips and then poked a finger into her sallow cheek. Such sudden self-consciousness forced her to think of Red, and she realized that she had been away from him for some while.

"I think I shall write to him," she decided, stuffing the last items on the vanity into her reticule and then promptly exiting the room. Her luggage was already loaded onto the carriage and expected to leave quickly and silently, with the wish that her time spent in the Calamy home would pass as nothing.

However, her dishonest wish could not be granted as long as Peter knew that she was in the house. He found that he spent much of his time thinking of what she would do next and why she would do it, and in a way, such a process enabled to him know her better, even if she wasn't exactly engaging in any bonding event between the two of them.

And so, upon reaching the end of the staircase, Harriet was disturbed to find Peter waiting for her, fine and neat even in civilian clothing. "Good morning, Miss Neville," he said, nodding at her.

"Good morning, Mr. Calamy," she replied, just as equitably. "I did not know that you would see me off."

"I find it my duty to make sure you are sent home safely, Harriet," he replied earnestly, offering her his arm as they made way towards the front door.

She took it timidly, finding the formality slightly unnerving but acceptable at the same time, and when Peter had brought her to her carriage, she slipped her arm from his and felt a drastic change in temperature close around her arm. Her body suddenly felt cold.

"Thank you, Peter," she said softly as she was helped inside the coach. "Nicholas will be happy to hear that I have at last understood one of his silly riddles, with your help of course."

"I hope his recovery is quick. Tell him that I give my greetings," said Peter, nodding at her as the coachman prepared to shut the door.

"Come visit m—us, Peter. My mother would love to see you," Harriet fumbled out hurriedly, not realizing that she had stuck her hand out of the carriage window as she addressed him.

"When my mother is well, I give you my word that I shall come visit you." He gave her a faint smile before he squeezed her hand and then nodded his approval of departure to the patiently waiting coachman.

Harriet was welcomed home warmly by her family, receiving kisses and hugs from her mother, father, sister and brother. Nicholas was still limping around the house with his crutches as his leg continued to heal, and Bridget would not leave with her husband and newborn child until she had learned every lesson in mothering from Mrs. Neville. Harriet did not find her sister's company as bad as she had thought it would be. She delighted in watching over little Abby whenever Bridget and her husband had other matters to attend to, and she and Nicholas worked together to make sure that Abigail Drake's plump little face always remained smiling.

She had received a letter from Red, and a few others from Olivia and Beatrice back at Godolphin, and from the notes she learned that Red was occupied with his studies. However, Olivia had mentioned in her letter that he had visited Godolphin on a few occasions and that he had a splendid time chatting with the school girls whenever he stopped by. Beatrice had subtly inquired about young Mr. Calamy, and Harriet could not help but smile and giggle at the letters. She longed to go back, but she decided to stay at home for a bit longer, feeling inclined to wait for the one thing she had secretly longed to happen.

She replied to all of the letters, finding the actual process of telling her friends about her doings relaxing and enjoyable, which was a lovely contrast to her previous despair in the weeks when she cared for the ailing Mrs. Calamy. She was glad to learn, however, based solely on the talk around the neighborhood, that Peter's mother was recovering slowly, and that she would soon be well enough to mind the house again.

Weeks passed and although Red, Olivia and Beattie had all answered Harriet's letters, Harriet continued to decline their wishes for her to return to Wiltshire. Red had mentioned a possible visitation in the near future, but his words were not certain, and Harriet began to wonder what he was so occupied with so that he could not even be with her for one day. Surely he was not engrossed in his studies to such an extent that he failed to acknowledge her. If he had enough time on his hands to visit Godolphin and her friends, then surely he could afford a week or two away to be with her at home. However, she soon realized that her thoughts were just as disagreeable. She was not compelled to stay at home any longer. Peter had returned to care for his mother and all she did at home was play with Abbie and talk with Nicholas. She had more than enough freedom to leave, but still she chose not to. Perhaps she'd wait until Red, Olivia or Beatrice decided to come visit her before she went to them. She seemed to like that idea better anyway.

And for once, she was surprised to find her hopeful wishes come true.

Young Mr. O'Cleirigh had put it upon himself to visit his wife-to-be using the element of surprise. And for added effect, he invited her dearest friends, Olivia Kersey and Beatrice Prescott, to accompany him on the way there. Harriet, entirely oblivious of their arrival, had uttered a shrill squeal when the doorman had summoned her down to the foyer and she spotted her fiancé standing in the door way, grinning broadly at her.

She met him quickly with an embrace and then shrieked some more, all still in his arms, when she saw Olivia and Beattie come forward. In her bewilderment, she slapped playfully at Red's arms, demanding to know why they had decided to startle her in such a way. Of course, the aspiring lawyer happily replied that if they were to announce their coming, she would not be even near the amount of joy she was experiencing at that moment. Harriet was forced to agree with him on that, and she agreed most willingly with a tender kiss.

When Mr. and Mrs. Neville heard of their arrival, the couple immediately greeted them with evident hospitality, welcoming Red as their future son-in-law, and beaming at the refined presences of Olivia and Beattie. All of the Nevilles were glad for the new company and it was celebrated with a fine, full dinner, in which the people of the household laughed and talked well into the night, their faces aching from the amount of smiles they gave and their cheeks blushing from the amount of wine they consumed.

As the night had fallen heavy and the call for slumber had pulled at them gently, the merrymaking was put to an end and everyone went their individual ways. And, to Harriet's astonishment, as she made way up to her room, Beattie timidly posed a question to her about Peter's whereabouts. Harriet blushed for her friend.

"He lives right down the street, Beattie. He will visit me soon," she said, hoping that the latter would not be a lie. "And I shall introduce you to him properly." The two girls shared a few twitters and giggles at that and then to bed they went. And as Harriet rested her head upon her pillows, she found herself not recollecting the events of that day and evening, but dreaming of what Peter's entrance would be like when he did indeed, at last, decided to visit her.

"I despise the rain," muttered Olivia as she frowned and yanked a thin light blue thread through her embroidery sheet. "If it weren't raining, I'd be riding. Mr. O'Cleirigh has offered to show me around the place since Nicholas is still not well enough to ride again and your father is busy with homely matters."

"If Mr. Calamy were here, I'm sure he would have loved to take you, Ollie," Harriet replied, looping her needle and thread through her embroidery circle with a steady, quick pace. She did not look up at the rain-spattered window that Olivia was glaring at in pauses between her sewing. She focused her eyes intently on the cloth and the pattern.

"Oh, you always insist that your neighbor is coming, but he never comes, Harriet. Has he even written to you?" Harriet glanced up from her work and eyed Olivia coolly, her lips thinning at the remark she had made. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Beatrice, on the other side of the room with her face in a book, raise her head and look in Olivia's direction as well.

"Why does he need to write? We shared our childhood together. He is welcome whenever he chooses to come by. He need not tell me before hand when he will come," Harriet replied defensively, returning to her embroidery.

"As your neighbor, I'd expect for him to visit you far more often," Olivia returned, her tone a bit too curt for Harriet's own comfort.

"Olivia, if you intend on sharing the melancholy of the rain with me, then I must tell you that I shall have none of it. You despise the rain and yet you act no better than it."

"Oh, Hattie," Olivia cooed, setting her work aside. "I did not mean it in that way. I apologize. Forgive me. I am just… tired of staying indoors. I long to go outside."

"I know, I know," Harriet mumbled softly to herself. "We all do."

Red walked into the room, his right hand sifting through several documents gathered in the crook of his arm. He hummed lightly as he took a seat beside Harriet, observing her artwork with a swift shift of his eyes before returning back to the papers in his grasp.

"How are we fairing, ladies?" he asked plainly, not really expecting for any of them to answer, and none of them did. He turned to Harriet and smirked, admiring her profile before leaning forward to kiss her cheek. However, before his lips had even touched her skin, there was a knock on the door, and nearly all three ladies in the room jumped at the sound.

"Who on earth could it be?" Harriet muttered, her arms gruffly tossing her embroidery aside as she rose and headed for the front doors to greet whoever had stopped by. Her parents had left but two days before to escort Bridget and her family back to their home in Bristol and Harriet was left in charge of the house, what with Nicholas still incapable of coming to greet guests at a quick enough pace due to his bad leg.

The doorman crossed her path and promptly told her that a party of men had come to visit, and aggravated by the number of guests, Harriet scowled and stomped into the foyer, only to come face to face with the many figures and faces of eight naval officers.

Her heart stopped and she instinctively pressed a hand to her chest, growing weak at their sight. Of all things to happen, she thought bitterly.

She gripped a piece of her skirt in each hand as she dipped a curtsy to them all, her mouth dry and her tongue refusing to utter the words her brain was submitting. Any other type of man she could deal with. But navy men? She had already voiced her fear of them and yet the person to whom she confided such a fear had brought seven others like himself to her doorstep.

"Good day, gentlemen," she quavered, rising and looking from face to face with an increasing frown. "Charles will get your coats. If you will, please follow me to the parlor."

"Harriet? Who's come?" Red called from the den. She heard Olivia giggle in the background. She knew that her dear friend had seen who was at the door.

"Officers, Mr. O'Cleirigh," she yelled in reply, turning back when she saw that her guests had seated themselves comfortably in the parlor furniture. "Will you come and introduce yourself?"

When Red voiced his consent, Harriet approached the navy men with quaking knees and managed to say, "I apologize for the improperness of your welcome. My mother and father are not here. They are accompanying my sister and family back to their home."

"No need to apologize, Miss Neville," said one, a captain, she judged, based on the two golden epaulettes hanging on his broad shoulders. "Lieutenant Calamy has told us of your nervousness among men like us and I assure you that we will try our best not to trouble you."

"Oh," replied Harriet, her voice still shaking by her unease. Her eyes darted over at Peter who looked at her with that same innocent stare and she could not have felt a greater loathing for him than ever before. She questioned how impudent he could be to bring such a burden upon her when her parents were not at home!

Red entered the room, his face immediately brightening at the merry group of men gathered in the parlor. He recognized Captain Aubrey instantly and went to the man, his hand extended for the welcoming handshake. "Good to see you, Captain. Very good. Miss Neville and I will be sure to make your visit her quite agreeable. But what brings you by?"

"I promised that I'd visit Miss Neville," Peter said, rising to greet Mr. O'Cleirigh himself. Red grinned as he shook hands with Peter.

"You must be Mr. Calamy. Harriet has told me much about you."

"We grew up together," said Peter, returning the handshake with a smile. Harriet was almost appalled by the amiable greetings exchanged between her fiancé and her childhood friend. The two acted as if they had known each other longer than she knew either of them and she knew that if she did not intervene, the only thing that would result would be Red staying up all night talking with the men and the visit she had so long anticipated of Peter would fall to ruin.

"Mr. Calamy," she called firmly, unintentionally speaking too loud and allowing for many heads to turn towards her. "A word with you please."

After excusing himself, Peter and Harriet left the parlor and she led him to her father's office where she allowed him to enter first and then shut the door behind them after she had stepped in as well. He stood, straight and still, waiting for her to begin what she wanted to say to him, and she leaned against the frame of the door, her face contorting with fury.

"How could you do this to me?" she shouted. "You know for a fact that I cannot stand in front of a group of men like you and conduct myself in the way a proper lady of the house should. I cannot, Peter. I cannot! And you know that! I told you!"

He said nothing and just looked at her, letting her yells hit him head on without so much as a flinch or change of expression. He simply kept his innocent, but thoughtful stare and absorbed her fierce words without so much as a turn of the head.

"I cannot have you stay in my house, Peter!" she screamed, livid at his aloofness in her frustration. "I want you out! How dare you do this to me? How dare you!" She paused as she collected her breath again, for her reprimands had exhausted her. Her throat ached and she grew slightly red in the face. "And do not say it was never your intent to burden me, Peter," she added tersely, her glare sharpening. "Because it is clear that you brought your comrades here to vex me." Peter could feel that she was about to deliver her harshest accusation and he stopped her before she could utter the words.

"Harriet," he began, shushing her as he came toward her.

"What?" she snapped.

"If you wish us to leave, then I am more than willing to inform my companions of your request. There is no need for you to berate me."

"No need?" she reiterated, her high-pitched voice straining as her eyes blazed. "I have every reason to punish you, Peter!"

"Because I come here under circumstances that you are incapable of coping with? That gives you reason to insult and degrade me?"

"Your inconsideration for my feelings is what I am chastising you for! You know that I am inarticulate when it comes to navy men. I told you that, and still you humiliate me by bringing them here to my home. You stand there as if you have no understanding of who I am."

"Because I do not!" His temper had finally broken and if she would not be willing to cooperate, he would return the aggression. "What kindness have you shown me since my return, Hattie? Scarcely any! You look upon me as a failure and turn bitter at past faults of mine!"

"Did you expect a warm welcome from me, Peter?" she shrieked, trembling from her anger. "I am not one who easily forgives and you will have to do more than what you are doing now in order to have my pardon!"

Peter's eyes instantly widened with a vivid irritation and he looked gravely at her, appalled at her words.

"And you speak as if you have no part in your own agony? Why must you think that I must put an end to this grudge of yours? We are both at fault here, Harriet! I have made many efforts to treat you with respect but you rebuke me for the attempts! If you so wish for our relations to be severed, I will be happy to oblige."

Her mouth had run dry and no more fiery words could find their way out. She simply stood still by the door, glowering at him with such a pure, limpid hatred that her once plain, pale face had changed into one of lively, untamable fury. And what she did next was all she could think of in her swirling mind. She opened the door and ran out, and Peter quickly pursued her. He could not have her run away from him again.

"Harriet!"

"You leave me alone, Peter!" she yelled, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back, and she rewarded his persistence with a sharp slap on the face before fully escaping his grasp.

The vicious 'smack' which resounded in the quiet hallways reached numerous ears and the effect was universal. Ladies and gentlemen rose from their seats and scurried into the corridor to find some sort of image to explain the sound they had heard, but all they saw was Peter standing by a door that rested slightly ajar, a bright red mark throbbing on the left side of his face.

Red, after coming to the understanding that he and Harriet had argued, asked: "Where is Harriet, Mr. Calamy?"

"She fled," Peter answered, glancing briefly at Red and everyone else before rubbing the sore spot on his cheek.

"What on earth happened?" inquired Olivia. "It takes quite a lot to make Hattie so livid."

"She's just requested that I leave," said Peter simply.

"She's just stubborn, Mr. Calamy. I am sure she did not mean that. That would be highly discourteous of her to drive you out," Red insisted, disbelieving the young naval officer's words. He had known Harriet to be so churlish towards guests. "Where is she? I should speak with her about this."

"I'm not quite certain as to where she went," replied Peter. At that, Red immediately ventured to find his lost, wandering wife and he hurriedly left the company of the others to search for her.

Knowing her, she would not stay in the house after such a fit of unprecedented rage. She'd have sought refuge in the gardens, and so it was there that he went to look for her, yelling out her name in the heavy downpour. His voice had to compete with the incessant patter of the rain and the low rumble of the thunder overhead, and he feared that the storm would drown out his calls before Harriet would even be given the opportunity to hear them. Luckily, his sight was not as unfortunate as his voice, and he found her sitting by the remnants of a rose bush, soaked from head to toe and shaking from her sobs.

"Harriet!" he cried, kneeling down beside her and lifting her to her feet, but she would not budge. She held onto him as soon as she sensed his touch but she would not get up for him.

"I'm sorry," she wept as Red pulled her up. "Please tell him that I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean… I didn't… I didn't…"

"Shh, Harriet," said Red as he held her. "It's all right. Don't cry anymore. Please, my Hattie. I hate to see you weep. Mr. Calamy is still indoors. He can hear your apology still if you come back in now." Even as he nudged her forward but an inch, she recoiled with wail and clung desperately to him.

"He'll never forgive me for what I've done," she said, forcing herself to quiet her sobs. "I find no reason for him to ever speak with me again."

"Let me take you inside at least. You will be ill again if you stay out here a moment longer."

She made no protest and allowed him to lead her back into the house. She even considered getting sick a lucky thing. She wouldn't have to face Peter or his comrades again. However, the more she thought about it, the more she came to know her own cowardice. Her presentation to the Court was nearing and still she could not hold herself in the company of a few naval officers. Her future did not look bright at the moment, and she was determined to change things, but her future, indeed, was grim. The very next morning, she fell ill and the guilt weighed heavy on her, for stuck in bed with a fever would only prolong her apology, and she feared that by the time she was well again, the opportunity to mend her relationship with Peter would be too late.