Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

1st January 99 - 15th January 99

"CUT!" yells the Director from his place behind the camera. The scene comes to an abrupt halt.

He marches out onto the dock and peers intently down the length of pebbled beach. He turns to face David. "What is that?" he asks incredulously.

Alexis shrugs from her seat on the boat. "It's a penguin Alan," she answers impudently, angry at the fact that they were going to have to shoot another take. "Haven't you ever seen a penguin before?" She had been attempting to ad-lib her way through until they could pick up their lines again .. but the Director just had to butt in.

The Director thumbs furiously through his script. He could not recall any mention of a penguin in the read-through .. nor had he requested one from the prop room.

The penguin continues to waddle along the beach, coming closer by the second. It seems curiously interested in the gathering up ahead. The crew members look at each other blankly. And then .. just as the Director was about to order someone to remove the penguin from the set when suddenly a small, dark figure burst through the woods and began running down the beach towards the boat, the camera crew, and the cast. It is yelling at the penguin.

The Director squints at the small figure as it comes closer. The bronzed legs, the tropical print skirt, the oversized hat. His eyes narrow to slits as he suddenly realizes that if he could see her hair (which was altogether hidden by the large straw hat), it would be red. His clenched his fists. Damn! It was Kari!

The crew watches as she races up to the penguin, snatches it up into her arms, and turns back towards the woods .. in hopes of making a quick, unnoticed escape. She had left the penguin unattended for only a short time while she chatted with Claudia about her holiday in Hawaii. She had told it to "stay put", but in her post-holiday, Hawaiian haze, she hadn't remembered that penguins don't speak English. And now (good grief!) it had ventured onto a set while filming was in progress. She had to get off the set before the Director noticed. He was already going to be upset when he saw her expense report (how was she going to explain the plethora of tropical drinks, luau parties, and sightseeing expeditions?) and she didn't want to give him further cause for blowing his top.

Hours later on that sunny Sunday afternoon, Grace was still in her chair in the garden of her cozy house. She had dragged her laptop, cellular phone and a stack of neglected work out to the garden table. As she typed away, Woofgang, the neighbor's Labrador Retriever, was snoozing at her feet, loosely curled in a shiny black ball on the vivid green grass. He lazily opened one eye as the cellular phone rang. Grace flipped the phone open and heard Hart's voice.

"Got a pen?" he asked. "Write this down." Hart rattled off an address in Bel Air, and an access code to open the gate. "That's my house. You're invited for dinner, 7 o'clock. If you're free, of course."

Grace smiled at Hart's formality. And of course, she did not remind him that she had learned his home addresses -- all six of them -- early in her investigation of him. To fill the awkward gap in their conversation, she blurted out the first thing that crossed her mind. "That address, 675 St. Cloud. It's across from the Reagan compound, isn't it?" The story of how Nancy Reagan had accepted the gift of a magnificent Bel Air estate from friends of the senescent former President -- and then insisted that the city change the original house number, 666, because of its Satanic implications -- had always amused Grace.

"Yes," replied Hart. "Old friends of mine. Know them?"

"Not exactly," laughed Grace. After the former President's grand jury testimony concerning illegal arms deals to the Nicaraguan Contras in the late 1980's, it was no surprise that Hart knew the Reagans. Hart had been accused of involvement in that covert operation gone terribly wrong, but nothing had ever been proven. Grace's laughter faded abruptly at this reminder of Hart's past. With an effort, she pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind and focused on the present. She promised Hart she'd be on time for dinner and rang off, turning to the more pressing question of what to wear.

At Brandon's announcement that he has much to discuss with Dev, Mary Anne clenches her hands together in her lap, squeezing until her knuckles turn white. Control. Stay calm, Mary Anne. He's angry, but not with you. "Christopher . . . before you do something you'll regret . . ."

"I assure you, I would not regret any of it, not in the least."

Mary Anne hastens on. "He is not an evil man, sir, truly! I do not think he really intended to do Therese any harm--"

Brandon rounds on her, and Mary Anne involuntarily edges back a bit on the chaise.

"No harm?" That VOICE. A knife drawn from a sheath of ice. "When I was riding with Miss Therese--Mary Anne, you may take my word for it that she is an accomplished equestrienne--"

There is a strange pang at Mary Anne's heart, as she listens. She would like to have that sort of expertise on horseback, and Brandon has promised to instruct her, but it will take some time.

Brandon continues. "--and yet she was in obvious pain and nearly fell from her saddle on the dismount. Good God, he beat her! How much more harm could he intend!"

Mary Anne lifts a placating hand. "He gave her a spanking. There's a bit of a difference."

"How much?" demands Brandon. "And how would you feel if I attempted something of the sort with you?"

Mary Anne feels the blood rush into her face, as she murmurs, "There was at least one occasion when . . . I thought you might."

Some of Brandon's rage drains away as he regards his wife--her lowered head, her averted gaze. Do not be so harsh, Brandon. She means well; you know she does. It is her nature to try to help others . . . Slowly, Brandon seats himself on the chaise next to Mary Anne and settles his arm around her shoulders, drawing her near to him.

The scent of her hair. Against her cheek, the shadow of her long eyelashes. The tremble of her lips at his very proximity--Brandon is a modest man, but he knows his effect on Mary Anne quite well, and his eyes stray to the neckline of her gown. The rise and fall of her breathing, quickened by his presence . . .

Brandon's throat tightens. She is his. His at last. I could never be harsh with her, never! To hold such a marvel in my arms, lavish my love upon her body . . . and then, to strike, when I had given love . . . ? Brandon shakes his head in puzzlement. How could any man be so foolish? Then, wary of the dangers of pride, he adds in his thoughts: May I never prove such an accursed . . . idiot as that.

Aloud, however, he simply murmurs to Mary Anne: "You know me. I would not." A pause. "And there is a difference between that momentary smart, to correct a willful child, and what was done to Therese. She was in pain, I tell you. No, whatever de Valera's intention may have been, he went too far. I intend that he shall understand that, and never even consider doing such a thing again." Brandon can feel his anger beginning to stir again, but damps it for Mary Anne's sake. She leans against him so trustingly . . . and he had not missed her flinching motion of a few moments past. That, however, had only been surprise at his sudden movement. If ever she shrank away in dread from him, it would certainly break his heart.

Meanwhile, Mary Anne's mind is working overtime behind her wide blue eyes. It would take very little to . . . distract Brandon at this moment. But Mary Anne puts the temptation from her. No manipulation. Still . . . there are other tactics.

"Christopher, we heard every word, you know."

"Which words?"

"When you and Therese were talking outside the conservatory. I was still in there, with Mister de Valera." A pause. "Therese was right, you know. One reason you're so upset is because of your father, and I know that Therese's father was also violent. I don't blame you for being angry."

Mary Anne watches Brandon through the cover of her long eyelashes. He is still quite plainly angry about the whole business, but at least he is listening.

"Well, Mary Anne?"

"Well . . . she was right. Dev--" Lift of Brandon's eyebrow, but he does not speak, and Mary Anne hurries on. "--is not her father, nor yours. He made a mistake." At Brandon's sudden intake of breath: "Please, hear me out! Therese said it herself; he's not a man without moral character. There's no pattern of violence here. He made a mistake. Please, allow him to correct it."

Brandon is silent for what Mary Anne feels is one of the longest moments of her life.

"Is that all?"

Mary Anne swallows. One more try. "Well, Christopher, there is one thing more."

A return of that silence.

Mary Anne's heart is beating so hard she has to glance down to make sure the front of her gown is not fluttering. "Christopher, please don't be . . . hurt . . . but I think that you're also angry with . . . yourself."

"With . . . myself?"

His voice. Level. Dangerously calm.

Well, I can't back out now! "I think--" Mary Anne risks a glance. Brandon's eyes fixed upon her, and she cannot turn away from that gaze. "I think you're still angry with yourself. From when you had to . . . hit me, to end that duel. You're spending some of that anger on Dev."

Abruptly, Brandon rises and crosses to the windows.

Feeling that she has made a mess of things and resolving to leave these matters to Doctor Mesmer in future, Mary Anne cries out: "Christopher, please! Listen, will you please just listen?"

Brandon does not stir from the window. "I am listening."

"Sir, I know you're grieved about what happened. But it saved us both." Saved us ALL, she thinks. "It was an accident--a fortunate one, as it turned out. But even if you feel you are to blame, I forgave you."

Mary Anne rises from the chaise. Heart pounding, she steps up to Brandon--and slips her arms about him from behind, allowing her hands to meet against his chest. She leans her forehead against his back and murmurs, "You don't have to . . . convince me . . . that you would never strike a woman. I know it's true."

Mary Anne can feel his heart, beating against her fingertips. As if she holds his heart in her hands.

"Please don't be angry. I didn't mean to hurt you, raking all that up again--but I think it's part of what you feel."

A kiss against his back. Can he feel it through the layers of clothing?

"Please, Christopher . . . forgive yourself."

Keeping his back to Andrea, Hamlet pokes at the logs and clears his throat. "They were damp and filthy. To warm you and dry you, we needed to remove them and clean you up."

She is almost afraid to ask. "We?"

"Yes. Mesmer and I. We could not waste time finding females to undress you, and he is a doctor...."

"... and you have seen me naked before ..." Andrea recalls standing in her hotel room shower the morning after the Gruber wedding. She screamed at Hamlet for intruding on her privacy then.

Hamlet also remembers the incident. They were both different people a year ago. He wanted her, and she wanted Nottingham. And, last night, she wanted him, and he spurned her.

Andrea wonders if Hamlet rejected her because he no longer finds her physically attractive. "My body is not nearly as impressive as the first time you saw me. Is it?"

Knowing that no painless answer to the question is possible, Hamlet reaches for a positive spin. "You will soon regain your health."

Andrea is not so hopeful. She was not yet completely recovered from the car crash when George battered and raped her. That punch from The Interrogator should not have knocked her flat, but it did, forcing her to remain out in the cold all night. Her body is not capable of responding to her every command. She is discouraged. Turning her face away from Hamlet, she allows the tears to flow.

As the Weinberg's boat pulls up to the dock of their private island, Alexis, who is looking towards the shore, gasps in surprise.

"What is it?" asks David as he turns quickly away from the wheel. His voice echoes the concern shown on his face as he looks about for the cause of her gasp.

Alexis shakes her head as if to clear a vision and then squints towards the coast line .. into the sun. Watching her curiously, David puts his hand up to shade his eyes as he follows her gaze.

"Did you see something?" he asks. This was a private island. No one was to set foot on it with the exception of their part-time caretaker and he was on holiday at the moment.

"There!" she exclaims as she points to a small object along the beach. "Do you see it?"

David shakes his head and is convinced his wife is seeing things. It must be the hot sun waffling her brain. She shouldn't cover herself in those black clothes in this type of weather. Didn't she know better than that?

"No," he answers in exasperation. "You're looking at a rock." The boat skims gently along the dock well-protected by its bumpers and, as David steps down in order to reach the tie-rope, Alexis unexpectedly, if not somewhat alarmingly, shrieks again. "David! Look!"

David glares at her and involuntarily follows her gaze once more. He sees nothing more than an rocky coastline. The waves lapped at the shore. The call of a bird echoed from the woods. He shook his head as he admired the natural beauty around him. She needed to get out of the sun .. that was all. The heat, coupled with her dark attire, was making her loony. And he hated it when she got loony.

Yet, just as he was about to turn his attentions back to the tie-rope, he noticed it too. A sight he had never seen except at the zoo.

For, there, waddling along the shore was ..

Taking her hair out of the holder that had confined it, Therese brushed it out, quickly but methodically, and pulled her shirt tail from her breeches. Sitting on the edge of her bed she struggled out of her tall boots, wishing a boot jack was considered a typical accoutrement for a woman's quarters. She was just starting to rise when a distinct rap was heard at the door.

Eamon? she wondered, her hopes rising in spite of herself. Had he come already? She consulted herself in the mirror--the effects of her day notwithstanding, she looked passable. She'd not planned to speak to him yet...but if he were here....

Therese opened the door to find a dark haired woman, hand raised to strike the door once again. "May I help you?" she asked, feeling a bit ridiculous, standing there in her stockinged feet, shirt tails hanging loose.

"Must not have been who you were expecting?" Commander Hudson remarked amiably, noting Therese's disheveled state, and the way her face had fallen when she'd opened the door.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you have me at a disadvantage--oh, you must be Commander Hudson, am I correct?" She stepped back inviting the woman into the room.

"Mohammad to the mountain, and all that," she explained, "I'd hoped to see you before this time."

Therese indicated a seat near the bed, "Shall I have tea sent up?"

The commander sighed. "Miss Gellert, this is a debriefing, not a pleasure call, I have much to ask of you concerning the events which transpired this morning."

Therese indicated the proffered chair once again, and seated herself after her guest had done so. Therese's posture was rigidly straight, her legs crossed at the knee. "Ask what you will, I will answer you to the best of my ability."

Hudson considered the woman sitting across from her. Not exactly what she had expected..."My first concern, Miss Gellert, was your second ride this morning, the one that occurred after your first attack. I cannot stress enough the importance of remaining within the main residence of Delaford at this time. That was a senseless risk."

"Commander Hudson, I am now aware that it will be necessary to remain with a guardian unitl this situation is concluded," Therese rolled her eyes briefly, wishing that there was a soul remaining in the bloody country who didn't see fit to tell her that..."However, I did not know who my attackers were until after I rode out the second time,with Colonel Brandon, I might add, who is not exactly a man I would describe as defenseless."

"I can only reiterate how dangerous these men are who we seek, and ask that you do not take such chances again. Now, please tell me in your own words what happened to you this morning."

Therese related the morning's events, or at least the relenvant ones to the commander, being careful to include any details that would be important.

"But why you ? the commander asked, "this is the one thing we do not understand."

Therese shrugged her shoulders. "I cannot help you in that. I have no idea why they bothered with me. Perhaps I was not the one they were truly after?"

"You realize how lucky you are that you were able to escape, and were not much more seriously hurt?" There was the beginning of respect in the commander's tone, this was obviously not a typical female to have escaped this situation. She made a mental note to add Therese to the prospective recruitment file for AR personnel.

"I have no illusions to the amount of danger I was in," Therese admitted, "and you have my assurances that a similar situation will NOT occur again if I can help it."

"Good," the commander told her, rising from her chair. "I see that I have been keeping you from your bath, and I do not wish the water to grow cold. Please contact me immediately if you remember anything further."

Therese rose from her seat, and showed the commander to the door. Latching it behind her departed guest, she crossed to the bath, and sank into the scented waters appreciatively. "I think I shall stay here til I resemble a prune," she said aloud, to no one in particular, and then proceeded to do just that.

At Brandon's call of "Enter," Mary Anne opens the door.

The Colonel is seated at his desk, but is instantly on his feet at the sight of Mary Anne and crosses the room to take her hands in his and kiss them.

Gazing at Brandon as his head is bowed over her hands, Mary Anne is momentarily distracted from her worries over the forthcoming conversation by her almost overwhelming physical awareness of Brandon as a man, an awareness sharpened by what had so sweetly begun between them on the previous night. Yes, she has known him for an attractive man and desired him for months, but the fulfillment of desire, far from blunting the effect, has fine-tuned her senses to aching concentration on the touch of his lips against her fingers, to every separate strand of his hair: shadings of gold and wheat, with touches of copper, cinnamon, chestnut, and the occasional thread of silver. And to his face, when he raises his head . . .

The signs of disturbance are clear. The warning signs. That deep vertical crease between his eyebrows, the colour of his eyes, the set of his lips, though she is well aware that he has softened his expression upon her entrance.

"So, Mary Anne, how is Renie this morning?"

"Better, by the time I went upstairs. But before that, I think she'd probably been sick as a cat all morning!" It won't work, Christopher. I know . . .

Something of her thoughts must be visible in her face, for Brandon gazes silently at her for a moment, then says quietly, "So. I take it you have heard."

To gain time, Mary Anne crosses the room and seats herself on the long, low seat near the windows. A fainting couch, or close enough to one. Good. I may need it before this is over. "Yes, sir. I know about . . . HIM, and the Sheriff."

Brandon seats himself beside her, and makes an attempt at a smile. "Well, that saves me the trouble of trying to keep it from you."

"You shouldn't have done that, in any case." Mary Anne swallows.

"Then you also know . . ." Brandon is beginning to see the full extent of her nervousness. " . . . that they attacked Miss Therese during her ride early this morning."

"Yes. But there was something else I wanted to discuss with you." Have it over, Mary Anne. "It concerns Therese and--" Just in time, it occurs to Mary Anne that she had best not seem on too familiar terms with Dev. Not at his particular moment. "It concerns Therese and Mister de Valera."

Brandon straightens abruptly. "Then you know about that as well. How?"

"I . . . had a talk with him this morning, while you were out riding with Therese."

In an instant, Brandon has risen from the chaise and is standing before her. "A talk, you say?"

You don't have to be afraid, Mary Anne! But though she knows she will come to absolutely no harm at Brandon's hands, Mary Anne is afraid--not for herself, but for Dev. Her perception that Brandon seems to grow taller when he is angry is reinforced by his stance before her now: his rigidly straight posture, the breadth of shoulder, the lift of his head as he stares down at her . . .

Mary Anne shifts uneasily, but keeps her eyes on Brandon's. When he's angry, he AIMS his eyes at you.

"Tell me about this . . . talk, Mary Anne."

"While you were out riding, I went to see Renie, and then I discussed the plans for the day with Miss M . . . and then I just wanted to be alone and have some peace for a bit. I went to that new conservatory you had built for me--it's so lovely there. Thank you."

Brandon is not distracted. "And--?"

"And I think Mister de Valera wanted some peace and quiet as well. He came to visit the conservatory while I was there. And . . . we talked. For quite some time."

Brandon paces toward the window and back again, considering.

Finally, he announces, with a slow precision that chills Mary Anne's blood: "I do not like the idea of you being left alone with . . . such a man as that."

Brandon's brows have drawn together. "You had best leave him to me, my dear. I have much to discuss with . . . Mister de Valera."

Mary Anne shakes her head. "You can save yourself the trouble, ma'am. I know what's happened."

Hudson's smile vanishes. "About the Sheriff and . . . everything?"

"About the Sheriff and . . . everyone."

"That The Interrogator is on the grounds, or nearby."

"Yes."

Hudson sighs. "Mary Anne, I hope you will not offended that we had hoped to keep that from you."

Lift of Mary Anne's eyebrow. "Well, it's not the sort of news one hopes to have the day after one's wedding." A grim smile. "But they say that forewarned is forearmed. Yes, it scares me sick to think of HIM being anywhere near me--but I think I'd rather know so I can be prepared."

"Mary Anne, I assure you that we will take every precaution. The Colonel has agreed to having an Alliance contingent here until we find HIM, and the Sheriff, or until we know for certain they have left the area."

Mary Anne nods, hoping that her trembling is not obvious--but dismally certain that it is, to a trained observer like Hudson. And Sherlock Holmes' landlady, yet. Not much gets past her.

If Hudson sees any sign of Mary Anne's distress, she makes not mention of it, but simply continues, "If you'll excuse me, Mary Anne, I have to go and find Miss Therese. She was supposed to give me a statement about the assault and I haven't seen her yet."

"She's probably in her guestroom; any one of the servants can show you." Mary Anne smiles. "Thank you for your help, Commander. All of your help."

Hudson nods and moves off down the corridor, and Mary Anne turns once more toward the study door, taking a deep breath and lifting her hand to knock.

Mary Anne and Dev watch, silent and motionless, as Brandon and Therese finish their conversation and move away toward the main part of the house. And finally . . .

"That," breathes Mary Anne, "was too close."

Dev nods in agreement.

It is fortunate that Brandon, as he had drawn close to the conservatory walls, was distracted by Therese and had turned to speak with her--so that his back was to the conservatory. As for Therese, she could not, from where she had been standing, see past the leaves of the tropical exotics ranged along that particular glass wall. If, however, she had been only slightly taller . . .

"Well," sighs Mary Anne, "I suppose I had better go and try to talk to Christopher. At least he won't try to strangle me."

But I'm NOT looking forward to it, she adds in her heart. Who was it that crawled down a drain in India to face a wounded man-eating tiger? Ah, yes . . . Colonel Sebastian Moran. But I think I'd rather have his job than mine, right now . . . .

With these not-so-comforting reflections, Mary Anne turns a curious look toward Dev, who has remained standing near the glass, gazing out at the brick walkway where Therese and Brandon had spoken just moments before. But it is not fear of Brandon that has held Eamon de Valera quiet and still.

"Dev?"

Mary Anne sees him turn toward her with a rather dazed expression, his eyes widened with amazement. He is not a man easily given to tears, but there is a definite glimmer in those eyes, and a hint of a smile hovering about his lips.

"Did you hear her?"

"I have excellent hearing," replies the puzzled Mary Anne, "but that's another story. What do you mean? Of course I heard her."

Slowly, Dev makes his way back to his chair--forgetting, for once, the gentlemanly demand that he remain standing in the presence of a lady. Mary Anne notes the omission, but quickly seats herself lest he realize it. "Dev, what is it? What's the matter?"

Dev is hearing the words again. Therese, pleading . . . for him. To Colonel Brandon. My future seems very bleak without him in it . . .

"She loves me." Shame struggles with wonder. "She . . . still . . . loves me."

Mary Anne exaggerates her motion of falling back against the settee. "Well, of course she still loves you!" A flash of those blue eyes. "Why in the name of--" She casts about for an appropriate invocation. "--William Butler Yeats--"

More than a hint of a smile on Dev's face now. A real smile.

"--did you think she was so hurt and angry about all of it, you, you--"

"Bog-trotting imbecile?" supplies Dev politely.

"Yes, that'll do nicely! How about--"

"Perfidious," enunciates Dev, allowing the brogue to surface, rolling the r as if savouring the sound. "Perrrrrfidious. That has a lovely ring to it. And I always enjoyed iniquitous as well--"

"Good! You perfidious, iniquitous blackguard! You--"

"And you must do something with pusillanimous . . ."

Mary Anne, however, is laughing too hard by this time to continue the verbal joust, and Dev finally laughs with her, as much from sheer joy and relief as from the humour of their exchange.

Mary Anne wipes at her eyes. "Feeling better now?"

"Much." Dev fixes her with a look. "And now, I must insist on escorting you back to a part of the house where you will be safe. So long as The Interrogator and The Sheriff are about, you must--" Dev halts abruptly. "You should . . ." He clears his throat.

Sardonic smile from Mary Anne.

Dev is not slow to take a hint. "Allow me," he bites out, "to respectfully request . . . that you take care, and stay near the Colonel. There, how was that?"

Mary Anne briefly pats her hands together in a parody of applause. "Bravo. Dev, I have great hopes for you." Then, more seriously: "I'll do the best I can for you--with Christopher, I mean. But he'll probably want to speak with you about this sometime today, and I can warn you right now that it will not be pleasant."

A brief inclination of that proud head. "To be restored to your husband's good opinion right away--I neither expect nor deserve it. As for that of Therese--" He squares his shoulders. "There, I can only hope that she will . . . give me another chance. I realize that it will take time."

"A lot of time," cautions Mary Anne. "She feels betrayed, and frightened with it. She loves you, yes, and I think she'll forgive you because of that. But love and trust are not the same thing."

"So long as she will give me the opportunity . . ." Dev shakes his head over the unpleasantness before him, then steps nearer to Mary Anne, gazing down at her. "I . . . thank you for your willingness to assist me. By speaking with the Colonel, I mean. Let us hope that I can discuss this with him quickly and have the worst of it over."

Mary Anne struggles to keep her face straight. Dev, if you think the WORST of it for you will be a tongue-lashing from Christopher, then you don't know anything about women. "The female of the species is more deadly than the male . . . " and all that. Unless I'm very much mistaken, Therese will make you squirm for this, good and proper, before she's done.

Aloud, however, she says only, "Well, I suppose we had better get on with it."

Dev stands back to allow her to pass before him to the door. "After you, Mrs. Brandon."

"Thank you, Mister de Valera . . ."

Some moments later, having passed through the corridors leading back to the main rooms, Mary Anne peers into one of the hall mirrors, quickly tidying her hair and checking her gown.

So far as she can tell, all is in perfect order.

Now for it.

Her heart is pounding, but with every outward appearance of calm, Mary Anne walks down the hallway toward Brandon's study . . .

thank you for respoding so promptly =) I'll think over the options, and still watch! Thank you so much!

Andrea,

I understand what you mean, now. Thank you =)

I'll write soon! =) Thanks you all, again! ¤

A knowledgeable Delaford servant informs Commander Hudson that Colonel Brandon has recently returned from a ride with Therese. Therese! thinks Hudson, she never did come to speak with me. And, with her attackers still on the loose, she goes out riding again?

Hudson shakes her head and silently reflects on the difficulties of protecting civilians who persistently place themselves in danger.

The servant adds that the master is now in his study. "And," she whispers "in no mood to entertain guests."

Hudson is not surprised. No doubt, Therese related her inflammatory tale to him. She assures the servant, "I feel certain that he will want to see me," and makes her way to Colonel Brandon's study.

Actually, the name really is "Mary Anne." I'm named after two of my great-grandmothers. All sorts of inconvenience, because people want to think that "Anne" must be middle name, and so they just call me "Mary." But I go by "Mary Anne," and always have.

As to what it takes to write here: well, you have the most important trait. You WANT to do it! *grin* There are a couple of possibilities: you write yourself in, or a version of yourself, and just "go with the flow," not attaching yourself to any particular Rickman character. Kate's posts were a lot like this when she was contributing regularly.

Or, you create another character, not yourself: e.g., Leigh's posts with Grace Alexander striking up a relationship with Lukas Hart.

Or, as most of us choose to do: find a Rickman character that's not already spoken for, write yourself in as that man's "significant other," and ENJOY!

If you need more advice, I'm sure everyone here will be happy to give it.

Come on in, the Realm is fine,

I've gotten used to all the Characters and everything, I just need some instructions... Jillian, you were right about Mary Anne being spelled Marianne. I do belive that 'tis how it's spelled?! What does everyone else think?!

I've got to run, but PLEEEEEEEEEEASE respond?¿?¿?¿?

Mary Anne, did you know that your name is actually spelled 'Marianne'? Just thought I'd let you know! Please Respond!

Colonel Christopher Brandon was stalking toward the house from the stables with a ground-devouring stride, and Therese found herself practically running to keep pace. Enough is enough, she thought to herself, stopping and placing her hands on her hips. She was beginning to wish she could find a VERY large rock to climb under. In tallying the events of her day, she had now been attacked, participated in the row to end all rows, received a spanking from the man she still adored in spite of himself, and has now seemingly provoked the heretofore sane Master of Delaford into a violent fit of rage...on what should be his first day of wedded bliss. It wouldn't come as a large surprise, Therese thought to herself morosely, if Mary Anne was having her bags thrown out an upper window at this very moment. Mrs. Brandon could hardly be blamed.

"Colonel Brandon, PLEASE! " Therese repeated her query, stopping short on the brick laid path outside of the glass walled conservatory.

He stopped abruptly, and turned toward her, his face murderous. Therese blanched. It seemed the closer his proximity to Dev, the angrier he became. Noting the disturbed look upon the Therese's face, Brandon struggled to soften his features. "You need not be frightened," he attempted to soothe her, "you are under my protection now, and de Valera is no threat to you, no matter the turn of events which will soon follow."

Therese didn't know whether to laugh or cry. That a man of such intelligence could be so blind. For that matter, that BOTH of them could be so idiotic! "That's not it, truly sir, please just listen to me for a moment. You must hear me out."

Brandon took a deep breath. Every fiber in his being was clamouring for him to go throttle Eamon de Valera. To strike a woman in his house?? To DARE to bring the threat of abuse back amongst Delaford's hallowed halls? "I am listening."

"Colonel Brandon," Therese paused, and taking a deep breath, attempted his given name for the first time. "Christopher, I am truly touched at your affront in my honour, believe me, and I know that you only wish to be of service. I am so humbly grateful for this that you have my sincere devotion forever, I assure you." She laid her hand on his arm, as if afraid he would fly off in his rage. "But I love Eamon. I know that what has happened between us is most serious, and that it may well yet end what was to be, but I need to know if this relationship can be maintained. As repugnent as this may sound to you at present, my future seems very bleak without him in it... I believe that as a man, you can help me no end by speaking with Eamon, but not with the furor that I see within you now. One of the reasons I have confided in you, the only reason I confided in you is because I have the utmost respect for you and your abilities with people. You have a gift, and it is this gift which I call upon now. Please, don't make this harder for me, I don't think I can bear it..."

"You still love him?" Brandon was incredulous, his voice a harsh whisper.

"Eamon is not my father, nor is he yours. We cannot vest the sins of those who have harmed us upon another. I believe that when you calm, you too will see this. Don't think for a moment that I am in any way justifying what he has done, but Eamon de Valera is not without character or a sense of morality, as would describe both of our sires. Please, Christopher, I seek your help, but not in this fashion."

Colonel Brandon considered the petite woman before him. "Eamon de Valera is a fortunate man to have won your love, Miss Therese, as of yet, I can only hope that he may one day become worthy of it. I will consider what you have told me quite seriously, you have my word. Now, if you will follow me into the main parlour, I will retire to my study...

Sinclair gives the Director a look that says he was off the mark concerning Claire. "Noooo," he answers, not amused by the Director's unwelcome assumption. "The fact that she is *not* keeping me awake at night is why I asked Dr. Mesmer for the pills."

The Director looks at him quizzically.

Sinclair raises an eyebrow in disdain, expressing impatience with the fact that the Director seems unaware of what exactly he has done to upset Sinclair's until-now, properly-ordered existence. "She's been spending a lot of time with that Roman you hired a few weeks ago," he answers curtly.

The Director nods. "Ahhh," he says knowingly. "I'm very sorry that Antony's arrival on the set has interfered with your *Claire* arrangement but that is not the issue at the moment." He drums the fingers of his right hand on the desk. "We have detectives snooping around the set asking questions about those sleeping pills and how they ended up in Achilles," he states. David's brow furrows.

"Now, I'm well aware that you didn't mean to take the wrong bottle from the cabinet, Weinberg. Bryant and I are as much to blame for the mistake. Neither of us bothered to confirm whether or not the bottle actually contained the aspirin we were looking for."

David nods seriously and the Director continues.

"As far as we know, Achilles was unconscious at the time of ingestion and, therefore, he can't, I hope, identify us as the perpetrators. The detectives are aware of his behavior on the set and feel that someone involved with our production was purposefully trying to take his life. They know he has not been model employee and they were briefed, by me, with regard to his troubled reputation. I hope I succeeded in convincing them that that much is true."

Sinclair silently nods but David speaks up. "Why not just tell the authorities what actually happened?"

The Director takes a deep breath and continues in an authoritative tone. "I want them to drop the investigation. Period. If we even allow that we know something, they'll continue to sniff around the set and it will throw a wrench into our production plans. We're behind schedule as it is and already facing pressure from the BBC regarding funding. If this leaks to the press, you can rest assured that our production will be forced to close down." He gives David a stern look and says with a slight sneer, "And I don't suppose you want to be out of work or be responsible for the rest of the cast losing their jobs. Am I right about that, Weinberg?"

David nods his head and motions for the Director to continue.

"So then, here is what we are going to do. The incidents that occurred in the trailer are never to be mentioned again. When he regains consciousness, I will convince Achilles that he took the pills himself. With any luck, he won't remember a thing and the investigation will be dropped. If he presses me on this, I will terminate his contract immediately. I won't have him interfering with or getting in the way of this production. Understood?"

Sinclair and David nod, once again, in unison.

"Right . Now, get yourselves back to the set. Kari returns in a few days and we'll be rolling on the New Orleans scenes as soon as she's settled .. that is, assuming Achilles is back with us. If he's not able to work at that time, we'll need to move up your New Orleans scenes, David. So be prepared."

When Mesmer sees her expression, he answers his own question. "The Sheriff has escaped."

Hudson needs to consciously unclenched her jaw before she can speak. "And, he had help."

Considering what Andrea told him, Mesmer deduces "... from The Interrogator."

The Commander raises an eyebrow. The guard was not able to give a description of her assailant.

Mesmer explains. "After I informed you of the attack on Therese, I went immediately to Andrea's guestroom. She wasn't there, but I found her lying on the ground outside her window. She had been there all night after an encounter with The Interrogator. HE was searching for The Sheriff and hit Andrea when she did not assist HIM."

Dev may be tossed clear across Delaford pretty soon . . . =8-O

At Mary Anne's suggestion that Dev should keep out of sight, he bristles. Instantly.

"Keep out of sight? You mean, hide--!"

Mary Anne rolls her eyes. "Don't be a fool, Dev! And besides, it's not as if you haven't had to hide before!"

"As a political necessity, yes," Dev replies, calming himself with an effort. "To save my life. But this . . ."

"Believe me, this may very well save your life! Listen--" Mary Anne leans forward. "As I understand it, Christopher's father was an abusive man--"

"Oh, God," mutters Dev. "I . . ." He sinks against the back of his chair, staring up at the conservatory ceiling for an interval, before he turns his attention back to Mary Anne. "As the English are sometimes known to put it: oh, bloody hell." At Mary Anne's uncomprehending look, he adds gently: "Therese had an abusive father as well."

Mary Anne's throat works for a moment. "God, have mercy," she whispers.

Dev has gone pale, but he attempts a smile. "It seems I must turn to Him for that particular favour, as I probably shall receive none from Therese--nor from the Colonel."

Mary Anne rises and paces the floor, her old habit when agitated; Dev stands to join her, and together they walk the pathways.

"Listen, Dev," offers Mary Anne, "it just occurred to me--if the Colonel were, well, distracted, he might have a chance to cool down. He'll almost certainly assist in searching the West Wood; that should keep him busy for a while. You were about to tell me what these men looked like, but I interrupted you . . ."

Dev obliges and begins to repeat Therese's description of her attackers, but he has barely begun the description when Mary Anne goes pale as paper and sways on her feet . . .

"Mary Anne! What is it?" Dev takes her arm and leads her back to the settee. "Are you unwell? Should I call someone?"

"No. Don't call anyone." Mary Anne breathes deeply for a moment. "Tall, you said. Dark blond hair . . ." Mary Anne's eyes close. "Steel-rimmed glasses . . ."

Unconsciously, Dev lifts a hand to his spectacles and adjusts them. "Like mine, yes. Mary Anne--?"

Her eyes open. "The dark man sounds like George. The Sheriff of Nottingham. He's wanted on rape charges. And the other man, with the glasses--"

Dev can see the irregular pulse beating in Mary Anne's throat.

"--that's The Interrogator."

Mary Anne lowers her face into her hands.

Dev sinks into his own chair.

Mary Anne looks up just in time to catch a sudden motion of his hand, and even in her fear and agitation, cannot help smiling a little. Eamon de Valera is, on account of the circumstances of his life and career, a hardheaded realist--but there are traditions of superstition in both Ireland and Spain, and the quick gesture is unmistakably a sign against evil.

But the moment passes, and he straightens in his chair. "That settles it," he announces firmly. "We cannot stay here. You should be back in the main portion of the house, where you will be safe. And the Colonel must be informed that these men are loose on his grounds."

"I can inform of him of that," counters Mary Anne, a bit shakily. "There is no need for you to do so. But then, he probably already knows. Therese may have told him. Poor girl, it must have frightened the life out of her."

"Evidently it did not frighten her enough," retorts Dev, "or she would not have gone out to the stables again, alone!" A grim smile. "But she gave them something to remember, I must say." At Mary Anne's curious look, he clarifies, "Therese kicked The Interrogator right in the--" Suddenly, he remembers to whom he is speaking, and glances away. "--well, where she would be sure of getting his attention."

"Believe me, Dev, she doesn't want his attention. Take it from someone who knows." Mary Anne shudders.

"There, now," soothes Dev, his brogue becoming more marked with the stress of the moment. "You mustn't stay here. Allow me to escort you back."

"I appreciate the offer, but for now, it would be best if you weren't seen . . . oh, no."

Dev follows the direction of Mary Anne's gaze, through the glass of the conservatory walls.

Her eyes are riveted to an advancing figure, walking up to the house from the direction of the stables.

Mary Anne's voice is eerily calm. "Mister de Valera--perhaps this is some flaw in my own perceptions, but . . . my husband seems to grow taller when he is angry, for some reason. Or so it seems to me."

With a sudden drying of his throat, Dev recognizes the advancing figure.

Colonel Christopher Brandon, stalking toward the house with a ground-devouring stride, the folds of his riding cloak snapping and billowing about him as if tossed by storm and gale . . . even though the weather is still and mild.

"I . . . see," murmurs Dev. "And . . . just how tall would you say your husband is at the moment, Mrs. Brandon."

"Oh . . . I would estimate . . . about eight or nine feet, and the odd number of inches." A quiver passes through Mary Anne. "But I suppose when everything is explained to him, he can be trusted to behave like a rational and reasonable man."

Dev is silent for a moment. Then with a nonchalance he is far from feeling: "In other words . . . he is going to be livid."

"Precisely."

At the keyboard, Kate awakes to the horrible realization that she is merely dreaming - a dream that must have been triggered by the kind Christams card sent to her by the dear Mrs. Brandon. Her life is still bound by the borders of a reality that keeps her busy with family responsibilities and keeps a roof over her head, but does not, at the moment, afford two of her favorite luxuries: a paying job and an internet account. Soon, she prays. The horizon looks promising, and going back to school has become a distinct possibility. More grateful than she can express that she has such sweet memories of those so dear to her heart, she relinquishes her father's on-line account to its proper owner, with the fervent hope that she will be able to steal furtive moments to visit her friends soon.

"Therese was attacked?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

Dev is on the verge of repeating Therese's description of her attackers, but then Mary Anne replies, "Christopher tried to warn me that the West Wood is dangerous. According to him, it was once a haunt of brigands and highwaymen and the like. Apparently it still is. But excuse me for interrupting you. Go on." Dev does.

It is tempting to gloss over certain parts of the story, but in his present self-lacerating mood, he resists the temptation and truthfully recounts the events, flinching a little at Mary Anne's brief intake of breath when he repeats the portion of his threat to Therese.

"Let me see if I have this right." A pause. "You threatened to spank her if she did not obey you?"

"Yes." Another pained monosyllable. Dev stares down at the bricks, knowing that his face approaches the same shade of red and not daring to look up at Mary Anne. It would be easier for him to stand before a judge than to sit here before this woman, who must now think that he is an idiot and a brute--and at the moment, he would be inclined to agree with her.

After a few moments he does look up at her, simply to end the suspense--which is evidently what she was waiting for. In a voice far more calm that he had expected, Mary Anne offers, "She's not a child, Dev."

"No--but I thought she was acting like one, and so I told her I would treat her like one. I didn't think--"

"Precisely. You didn't think." A pause. "Go on, then."

"Go on? I should think I've said enough!"

This time, Dev resists the temptation to look away from Mary Anne's face, as her eyes widen in surprise. "You don't mean that you actually--!"

"That is precisely what I mean." Dev rises from the chair and paces about, too agitated to remain seated. "She went back out to the stables . . . and I found her there. All I could think of was, what if those men came upon her--no one could hear her and help."

"There are grooms down there."

"Only one when I was there," snaps Dev, "and I don't think he would have been much help! He was the one who allowed her out alone at the beginning!"

"Lower your voice," replies Mary Anne, and Dev catches the undertone of ice. "They'll hear you over at Barton Park."

"Forgive me," he murmurs, moving to the display of gardenia and breathing in the sweet, rich scent, trying to calm himself. Dev, lad, that temper will be the death of you if you don't take care. "I apologize, Mrs. Brandon."

"Accepted, Mister de Valera. And so you--" A delicate lift of her eyebrow.

"Yes." Against his volition, his fingers curl into fists. "I did."

"I . . . see."

Dev turns toward her in astonishment. "You do not seem very shocked."

"I'm not. I understand how it must have been." Her voice hardens. "I understand, but I do not approve. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly." It is almost a groan, as Dev settles once more into his chair. Or perhaps I should have remained standing--for is it not customary for the prisoner to rise and face the judge, when his sentence is pronounced? Having told the tale, he finds himself almost shaking with the reaction--apprehension as to what this woman will think of him, and an odd relief at having shared it with another.

Something of this must show in his face, for Mary Anne smiles a little and offers, "Well, that must be a load off of your mind."

"They say confession is good for the soul."

"It's not your soul I'm worried about. If the Colonel finds out about this--"

The rest is only too obvious. "--then I take it my body won't be worth a pint of stale porridge?"

"It might be in approximately the same condition, by the time he had finished." Mary Anne tries to make light of the situation, but her concern is betrayed by the nervous twisting of her hands as she plucks at the braided trimmings on her gown. "He takes a very dim view of . . . striking a woman."

"You seem quite rational about the whole business. I would think that you would sympathize with Therese. As another woman, I mean."

At the look Mary Anne turns on him, Dev cannot quite repress a cold, crawling sensation along his backbone. Those eyes, glinting steel-blue at him. Almost as if someone else looked out at him for a brief moment . . . but the moment passes. "I do sympathize. I think, Mister Eamon de Valera, that you have put your foot into it royally. Both feet. I would advise you to give Therese time to simmer down a little, and then offer her your most humble apology--and a promise that you will never do anything of the sort again. And if you are a praying man, pray that my husband never finds out."

Dev sighs. "If my guess is correct, he already knows."

Mary Anne starts up in alarm. "How?"

"After you left us to see to Mrs. Gruber, the Colonel went riding and invited Therese to go with him."

Mary Anne's eyes narrow. "He did?"

For all of his lingering embarrassment over the story he has just told, Dev cannot resist the opportunity. "Have you taken a good look in the mirror lately? Surely the Colonel has no need of an assignation."

Mary Anne looks at him for a moment, startled, and then favours him with a sweet and winning smile. "That was very gracious of you, Dev--especially after I've been so hard on you. Do forgive me."

"Hard on me? Far easier than I expected you to be, I would say."

"As I said--I do understand, even if I do not approve." Now it is Mary Anne's turn to look down at the bricks. "Dev, I--I once went against the Colonel's express wishes, and ran headlong into a dangerous situation. The result was a near-catastrophe. I knew he was very upset with me, and I went for days and days wondering what he intended to do about it.I even wrote him a note, begging him to do whatever it was he intended to do, and have it over."

"And what did he do? Were you afraid he would beat you?"

"Afraid?" Mary Anne laughs a little. The memory is still a painful one, even after all this time. "I almost wished he would. I was feeling so guilty, you see, and I would have felt as if I deserved it. I didn't know him so well, then. But I was worried to a ghost--he took me out horseback riding so we would have privacy. He was trying to spare my feelings, but all I could think of was that we were out there alone on Egdon Heath, and . . ." Involuntarily, Mary Anne's right hand lifts and presses against her heart. " . . . well, he was carrying a riding crop . . ."

"Not that bad, surely"

"No. He did not strike me. He did not even say very much, when the moment arrived. But . . ." Mary Anne's hand lifts still further, to press against her burning face. " . . . it was clear that he was . . . disappointed. That he had expected far better of me. He was gentleness itself, and forgave me when I asked--but I never want to get that close to hell again." A pause. "You will probably have noticed that Colonel Brandon has . . . a natural gift for authority."

"Indeed," murmurs Dev.

"He can make himself obeyed--and loved at the same time. And I think he discovered long ago that with a temperament like mine, love is better than force. When he takes the trouble to ask me to do something--and he generally does ask, and not command--I usually obey because it is best to do so. Not because I am afraid of him, or of what he would do to me if I did not obey. Something for you to think about, Dev."

"So I shall."

Mary Anne straightens up and leans forward with an unmistakable air of getting down to business. "Meanwhile, if Therese has told him about this morning . . ."

"She almost certainly has. Your husband is an observant man; he would have known that all was not well between us. If she gave him the least opening . . ."

"Enough said," sighs Mary Anne. "So, you had best keep out of sight for now . . ."

Mary Anne studies Dev's face, but his expression is inscrutable--his politician's face, she thinks. He betrays no sign of impatience as she tries to guess what question he may have to ask her about her relationship with Colonel Brandon.

"You may ask," she finally replies, cautiously. "I won't guarantee to answer."

Dev hesitates and glances about, as if he wonders whether they can be overheard. "Before I go on--are you quite sure this is not distressing to you? Having this conversation with me, here?"

"Distressing? Not in the least. Why should it be?"

"Well . . . a new bride, having a conversation in so . . . private a place. With a man who is not her husband. People gossip, as you must know."

A quiet laugh. "I know they do--but have you taken a good look at my husband lately? Surely I have no need for an assignation."

Dev does not quite return the smile, but there is a definite gleam of amusement in his eyes. "True enough. The Colonel is a most . . . impressive man." He leans back in his chair, affecting relaxation. "At breakfast, you addressed him as 'sir.' Does that make you at all uncomfortable?"

Mary Anne is quite honestly baffled. "No. Why should it?"

"Many women, I fear, would find it a trifle subservient, perhaps."

I fear. Perhaps. The qualifiers of a politician. Careful phrasings, to avoid defining a situation too clearly. Diplomacy. Subtlety.

Mary Anne, in her turn, waits a carefully-timed three seconds before her reply. "I have adressed the Colonel as 'sir' almost from the beginning of my acquaintance with him." A smile. "I am not quite sure, even now, how it began. Shortly after my very first meeting with him, he rescued me from The Interrogator--"

Mary Anne does not miss the sudden movement:Eamon de Valera has heard of The Interrogator, and what he has heard is terrifying. Even a man so accomplished in concealing his thoughts is unable to repress that uneasy shift in his chair.

"--and I was, quite naturally, very grateful. And loved him almost at once. Also, he is--was--a military man, so it seemed quite natural to address him thus." Mary Anne, in musing over those first days of her acquaintance with Brandon, does not realize that her eyes, fixed so intently on Dev a few moments ago, have gone distant with a tenderness that moves and troubles the man sitting opposite her, and makes him wonder if Therese's face has ever worn such an expression when she has thought of him--and, if it has, whether it ever shall again.

Mary Anne emerges from her reverie. "After a time, as Colonel Brandon and I came to an . . . understanding . . . of how we felt, it became something of a joke between us. A term of endearment as much as a term of honour, you understand."

"Perfectly," murmurs Dev.

"Yes, I know that some people--male or female--might find it odd, for me to address my husband in that manner. But then--" Mary Anne smiles, and the smile is a happy one. "Not all men are so worthy of respect. And he had proved himself such a man, long before he became my husband."

Not all men are so worthy of respect . . . had you TRIED, Mary Anne, you could not have done so fine a job of twisting the knife.

To conceal the pain he is certain must be revealed in his face, Dev removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes and the bridge of his nose, as if his head ached. This delaying tactic completed, he replaces the glasses and studies Mary Anne--with the uncomfortable feeling that he has concealed nothing at all from her.

Mary Anne watches him closely, wondering where all of this is leading. One corner of her mouth lifts briefly in a half-smile as she thinks of Mrs. Jennings and her ability to "winkle out" people's secrets. Leave this man alone with her, and I'd soon know everything there is to know. And so would everyone in Barton and Delaford parish! And Mary Anne is tempted to adopt Mrs. Jennings' direct approach, for she knows that Dev is far too adept in the intricacies of conversation for her to trick him into revealing his thoughts, either by subtlety or surprise. And so she waits. She is not fond of waiting, nor is she especially good at it, but it seems the only tactic at hand.

Under normal circumstances, Dev could easily wait out the silence that falls between them. But the circumstances are far from normal, and Dev finally gives in, giving a touch to his spectacles to make sure they are firmly settled. "I would like to ask your advice, Mary Anne, and your . . . help."

Silently, Mary Anne waits.

"It concerns . . . Therese."

Perhaps it is a trifle cruel, but Mary Anne once again counts that three-second pause before her reply. "And yourself."

"Yes."

The strain of it is obvious--that one "yes," forced out almost as a gasp. Mary Anne is not a hardhearted woman.

"Tell me, Dev. I'll help if I can." Privately thinking, Now we're getting somewhere . . .

Staring down at the brickwork of the conservatory pathways, Dev begins the story of the morning's misadventures . . .

"May we ride once again, Colonel?" Therese asked, indicating the horses.

"Certainly, as you wish," he said, stepping in front of Menelaus to help Therese mount. Moving to her side, she bent her left knee, and Brandon gave her a leg up, tossing her effortlessly upon the horse's back.

Therese collected her reins and patted the animal's neck thoughtfully, pausing as Brandon situated himself in the saddle. "You are likely to be quite angry with what I have to tell you," she said softly. "But I do need to discuss this with someone...you see it concerns my relationship with Mr. de Valera, and whether or not that is to continue." A single tear slipped, unbidden, down Therese's face, and she quickly wiped it away. Brandon handed her a hankerchief wordlessly.

"You must think me quite foolish," Therese said miserably, accepting his offering.

"I think you are greatly disturbed by something," he responded, "yet you are hesitant to voice your concerns." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I know of the regard with which you hold Mr. de Valera, yet I can see that there is something quite seriously wrong between you both as of this morning."

"May I ask you a question, Colonel, that may offend you, though I assure you that would not be my intent?"

Brandon studied the woman beside him for several moments. This was an unexpected change in topic. "You may," he finally allowed.

"Would you ever strike a woman?"

Brandon flushed slightly. He had struck a woman, the woman he had married, once in his life, under conditions far beyond his control, in a situation that defied explanation to anyone who had not been there to witness the scene. The wound, though healed, was yet painful. Therese did not ask about a specific instance, however, but a moral code of conduct. "Absolutely not," he replied firmly. "A gentleman does not raise a hand to a female, regardless of station or position in life. Though I suspect you ask this not to question my integrity, but for reasons of your own?" He pulled up his horse, and turned to look at her, a fierce glint in his eye. "Has Mr. de Valera raised a hand to you in my home?"

"Not precisely," Therese murmered.

"Explain how imprecise that question was." His tone, though calm, brooked no refusal.

"It happened in your stable, not your home." Therese looked over at the Colonel, and began to grow a bit alarmed. His face was flushed an angry red, the cords of his neck were clearly defined, and his golden eyes flashed. His anger made her nervous, and in her anxiety she poured out her story. She told him of Eamon's warning to her, that she should not be unattended after the attack, how they'd quarreld, her trip to the barn to groom the black, where Eamon had found her, and what had occured next. "I do not believe he meant to actually hurt me as he did," she added, "but I was far too proud to ask him to cease."

Therese hung her head, her face burning in embarassment. "Therese, look at me." Her head snapped up at the commanding tone.

"In situations of abuse it is infreqently the physical effect that causes the greatest amount of damage. You need not feel any sense of guilt or shame on my account. This was not your fault, do you understand?"

Therese nodded, "It is one thing to understand, sir, but a far different thing to feel. My father perpetrated horrible acts of violence upon my mother, and I cannot, I will not allow the same thing to happen to me. I love Eamon, beyond what I had believed possible, but I am not prepared to live a life as I witnesssed in my father's household."

He observed the three men on horseback from beneath his brows. They were passing the newspaper clipping between themselves, talking in low voices. He heard Jack's name mentioned more than once. They seemed to be weighing the money in the pockets and the promise of more to come against the repugnance of mistreating wives and mothers. Best just keep quiet now, O'Hara he cautioned himself.

After the shock of their unexpected meeting, Mary Anne and Dev make the customary polite conversation of acquaintances who meet again after a long separation. Mary Anne asks such questions as occur to her about what Dev has been doing since they last saw each other, and meets with civil but rather evasive answers, which leads her to suspect only too clearly what some of his activities may have been.

Dev in his turn inquires as to Mary Anne's doings since the Delaford picnic, their first formal meeting and the only time that they had been in each other's company for any great length of time.

And as Dev listens to Mary Anne's summary of such events as she sees fit to tell him, he gradually loses awareness of her words and is drawn along simply by the sound of her voice. Yes, after that first fright he had given her, Mary Anne's command never to scare her like that again had echoed around the glass enclosure with a force verging on the operatic. But now her voice is restored to its melodious contralto, and Dev finds some balm for his wounded feelings in following the rise and fall of it. Her voice was ever soft, Gentle and low--an excellent thing in woman . . .

There is a silence, followed by laughter from Mary Anne, and the amused inquiry, "Only in woman, Mister de Valera?"

Dev realizes then, to his complete embarrassment, that he must have spoken aloud. "I am sorry! I . . . my mind was elsewhere, and it was pleasant to listen to you. Forgive me."

"Forgive you? I have seldom been so flattered. It must have been pleasant, if it brought Shakespeare to mind."

A negligent shrug, with a hint of a teasing smile. "Ah. An English playwright, I believe."

Mary Anne leans against the back of the settee, grinning at the pleasant prospect of a duel of wit. "Perhaps you would be better pleased by one of your own countrymen." A pause, and then Mary Anne murmurs softly:

"There is one thing that all we women know
Although we never heard of it at school,
That we must labour to be beautiful."

She is rewarded with a smile from Dev. "One of my countrymen, indeed. William Butler Yeats."

Dev scrutinizes Mary Anne closely, as if really seeing her for the first time since he has entered the conservatory. He had been wandering miserably about Delaford since Therese had left for the ride with Brandon, making it abundantly clear that she did NOT want his company. This conservatory had seemed as good a place as any for Dev to be alone with his guilt and self-reproach, but perhaps it is best not to be alone at such a time. Mary Anne seems an understanding woman . . .

Dev lifts an eyebrow in a deliberately appraising glance, which Mary Anne returns unwaveringly until he offers, "Labour to be beautiful? Is that what women do?" A slight inclination of his head. "Then allow me to say, Mrs. Brandon, that I have seldom seen greater accomplishment in that endeavour--with so little appearance of labour."

Mary Anne's gaze is good-natured, but every bit as appraising. "Thank you; that was lovely. Kissed the Blarney Stone, have you?"

"Some women enjoy it."

"Some women believe it."

A silence falls. "Sometimes," comes Dev's bleak rejoinder, "it happens to be true. A compliment, I mean." A flash of the steel-rimmed spectacles, as Dev turns his eyes away from her and examines the display of gardenia. "Not all men are . . . deceivers, Mrs. Brandon. Some can be trusted."

"I know that." Her voice. Soft, gentle and low. "I'm married to one of the best."

Another silence falls, one in which Mary Anne begins to perceive that this man sitting across from her, for all of his pride and reserve, carries with him some tremendous pain--and not, she suspects, an old one. His glances, his movements, the occasional sardonic twist of his lips in a movement that is meant as a smile . . . signs of a fresh wound.

At the same time, Dev examines Mary Anne as she leans against the back of the settee, one arm resting casually along the back. She is wearing one of her new gowns that Brandon had ordered for her when the clothiers had come to construct her wedding dress: the background of this one is a dark, cool green, splashed with a pattern of creamy white flowers, each blossom carefully outlined with thin braiding in green, black and white, which has the striking effect of making the flowers seem to float above the gown like blooms on the surface of a pool. That effect of stillness with freshness--so harmonious with the atmosphere of the conservatory--calms Dev's hurt and awakens in him some hope that, perhaps, he can seek Mary Anne's advice.

Logic rebels against the idea. You hardly know her. You have met her upon a few occasions; surely that does not warrant . . . But his heart ripostes that logic is not always the best guide--after all, look where his attempt to get Therese to "see reason" had gotten him.

"Mrs. Brandon . . ." he begins.

Mary Anne raises a hand to halt him. "Please. We were 'properly introduced' a long time ago, and I've been Mrs. Brandon-ed and ma'am-ed to death since I arrived here. My name is Mary Anne."

"Very well--Mary Anne. And I'm Dev, to my friends."

A twinkle. "And what are you to your enemies?"

An inward sigh. I suppose you could ask Therese . . . But outwardly, he returns the mischievous grin. "To my enemies? The devil incarnate."

"Dev-il. Hmmmm, appropriate."

As their laughter dies away, Dev searches for a way to introduce the topic he has in mind. "Actually, Mrs.--sorry. Mary Anne. I am glad you have raised the subject of titles and . . . proper forms of address. May I presume upon our regrettably sketchy acquaintance . . ." At the roll of Mary Anne's eye, he laughs, "What, have I kissed the Stone again?"

"Kissed it? You've swallowed it."

"To the point, then. Mary Anne, may I ask you a rather personal question?"

A second of silence. Two seconds. "Concerning--?"

"Your . . . relationship with Colonel Brandon."

As requested Sinclair and David reported to the Director's office that evening when filming was done for the day. They found the Director already there, pacing the floor, and looking worried.

"Sit down," said the Director as he motioned toward the chairs that earlier in the day had held the detective and the FBI agent. "We have a problem."

"What do you mean *we* have a problem?" asks Sinclair.

"There have been some detectives sniffing around the set," replies the Director as he takes his own seat behind his desk. He leans back in his chair and, assuming his usual pose, folds his hands and rests them on his stomach. "They found your sleeping pills, Bryant, *in* Achilles. They say he had ingested a lethal dosage."

Sinclair's eyes narrowed. "What was he doing taking my sleeping pills?" he asks, sounding slightly outraged. His mind drifts back to that day in the wardrobe trailer when Achilles was perusing his closet and his clothes. "Can't he keep his hands off of my belongings?"

David chimes in. "It serves him right. He can be so greedy at times."

The Director holds up his hand to stop the pair's angry words. He then reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a small bottle. He tosses it at David and leans back in his chair as he watches intently for David's reaction.

David catches the bottle with a large hand and glances at the label. "These are yours," he says to Sinclair and tosses the bottle over to him.

Sinclair feels the weightlessness of the small article. He pops the top. "How many did he *take*?, he asks angrily as he peers inside. "This was a new prescription!"

"Given to you by Dr. Mesmer?" asks the Director.

"Yes," answers Sinclair with a big sigh.

"Why?" asks the Director. He liked to know when his cast members were having problems getting a good night's rest. The success of their production depended on everyone being at their best .. at all times.

Sinclair pursed his lips together. He lowered his eyes .. and then his voice. "It's Claire."

Therese had used the element of surprise to gain a good lead, but the horse she rode was an Andalusian, a Spanish warhorse, bred for strength and valor on the battlefield, but not for speed. Brandon was on his field hunter, a horse of thoroughbred lineage, a blue blooded creature who counted among his forefathers the great racehorse Xanthanon. The colonel beat Therese by a nose.

Therese was exhilerated, as she always was after a good hard run, and she grinned at Brandon hugely. "I concede that you are the winner, sir," she told him, doffing an immaginary cap to him in respect.

"Miss Gellert, you are an utter hooligan," the Colonel told her, not without affection.

"I shall take that as a compliment," she informed him, her smile turning to a grimmace as the effects of the hard ride caught up to her compromised posterior. "I'm sorry, sir, I must step down for just a brief moment--"

Colonel Brandon was off of his horse and at Therese's side before she could completely swing her leg over Menelaus' back, which was probably a good thing, as the additional movement caused her to flinch, and slip from her stirrup. In all likelihood she would have fallen had Brandon not been there to catch her. "I'm s-sorry," she stammered, grabbing at his arm for stability.

"Miss Gellert--Therese! What is the matter? You are not well, and have not been all morning." He looked down at her much smaller form, a frown creasing his brow. "What is it?"

"No, Colonel, I assure you , I am fine, really. I just need to walk for a moment." Therese looked toward the ground. "A cramp in my leg," she explained weakly.

Brandon fought a momentary battle with himself. Interfere? Desist? Setting his jaw, he made his determination. "Miss Therese, I am an observant man, and you are an abominbable liar. At my breakfast table, you were reticent to sit down. When you did perch on your chair, it was for a brief moment or two, and never, at any time, did you make full contact. From the time you mounted Menelaus, you have been shifting about in your saddle as if you were quite uncomfortable, yet I can clearly see that this is not due to unfamiliarity with a horse. Are you injured?" He indicated the bruise that discolored her cheek. "Did you fall earlier when you rode?"

Therese did not know how to respond to his questions. The truth was humiliating, and would likely not please her host. Still, he probably should be informed of the men who had accosted her in the West Woods, though telling him that, would eventually lead to why she wasn't moving about too well. She sighed. "May we walk ahead on foot for a moment, while I determine how to phrase this?" she requested softly.

"Certainly," he replied, taking the reins from her hand, and leading both of the geldings.

Therese walked for several moments, the Colonel staying close by her side, yet not interfering with her thoughts.

"I do not believe you will be happy with what I have to say," Therese finally began, "though you are a very intelligent man, and perhaps may have some insight on the matter."

"I shall give it my utmost consideration."

"I had a small mishap on my ride earlier this morning," she began, and paused at the concern that leapt to his face. "Dr. Mesmer and Eamon took care of everything, I assure you, there was simply no way any of us were going to disturb you and Mrs. Brandon on this of all mornings," she told him, her cheeks colouring slightly. "Dr. Mesmer has told me that I am to speak with Commander Hudson about this as well, which I will do as soon as I return."

"What could have possibly happened to warrant that?" he asked, concern tinging his voice.

"I was attacked this morning, when I rode in the West Woods." She told him of her attackers, and her narrow escape, and she watched his face drain of all colour. "Colonel?" she asked him worriedly. "Are you all right?"

"I am fine, Miss Gellet, it is simply that I believe I am aware of the two men you had the misfortune of meeting, and it disturbs me very much indeed. And you were hurt when they pulled you from the horse, is that correct?"

Hamlet sets his jaw and rises from the bed to pace. He returns the teacup and spoon to the night table. "I am angry that I was unable to protect you from yourself. You must truly hate me to endanger your life by running off as you did. For all you knew, The Sheriff was lurking nearby. You might have encountered him in addition to The Interrogator. I have often warned you against thinking too much; I am astonished to now find you guilty of the reverse."

Andrea trembles with fright. She had been so intent on running away that she hadn't considered the dangers she might run into. Pushing aside her fear, she won't allow Hamlet to believe that she hates him. "It is because I care about you that I left. I didn't want to hurt you any more than I already had."

Hamlet stops pacing and stares at her. "You will kindly allow me to judge the extent of my own suffering. Do you imagine that I stay near you to torture myself? No. I will not hear of you leaving me to spare my feelings."

Mary Anne wanders among the blooms. Most thoughtful of Brandon, to provide her with this so that she could enjoy the Delaford roses year around. Well, some of the hardier varieties at any rate. But more than roses: as Mary Anne walks about examining the carefully tended plants, she begins to smile at her discoveries--pots of violets, for example. Christopher was right. Renie only had to ask Chance for them!

Mary Anne finally decides to rest on a settee near a display of some tropical gardenia, propping her feet on a nearby chair, breathing in the heady perfume and enjoying her solitude. Some new bride you are, enjoying being alone. But it is true. When she had finally left Renie to rest in her guestroom--still not feeling up to a normal day, yet--Mary Anne had been duly informed by Miss M that Brandon was out riding the estate, and what were her orders for the day? It had come to Mary Anne as no small shock that with Brandon away, she is in charge of the estate . . .

But she had quickly pulled herself together. Brandon may have gone about his duties--after all, the business of running Delaford doesn't stop just because the master has married!--but with Moire MacLeod beside her, Mary Anne is quite capable of making the necessary decisions. Or muddling through them, at any rate, with some appearance of authority.

"Very good, ma'am," from the unflappable Miss M as she had received those orders--plus the news that Mary Anne is going to walk about a bit, to re-acquaint herself with the estate. And Mary Anne had fled to the conservatory, torn between the impulse to burst out laughing and the wry hope that the "decisions" she had just made would turn out to be the right ones.

The display of gardenias. The comfortable old settee.

Peace.

Mary Anne breathes deeply.

With a sudden chill at her heart, she recalls the Delaford picnic--and The Interrogator, demanding that she meet HIM at the Orchid Conservatory . . . HIS threats against Brandon if she did not . . .

The Orchid Conservatory. She is in no hurry to visit that site again.

Peace and quiet.

Thinking of Renie, Mary Anne feels the sudden sting of tears and searches the pocket of her gown for a handkerchief, finally managing to unearth a scrap of linen and lace. One day I simply MUST stop carrying these romantic trifles and get a real handkerchief . . . She wipes her eyes, knowing quite well that she is feeling the strain of the long preparations for the wedding, and then the new experiences of the previous night--delightful,yes, but any new experience can be stressful--and her new duties as mistress of Delaford . . . all that, plus the realization that she and her dearest friend in the Realm can never go back to their days of "running mad" together. That is over.

One door closes, thinks Mary Anne, and another opens . . .

Quiet. Deep quiet.

And then Mary Anne nearly jumps out of her slippers.

At the far end of the conservatory. The click of the door opening.

Footsteps along the bricks of the pathways.

Mary Anne is off of the settee and down a side pathway, trembling, her nerves unstrung with her recent thoughts of The Interrogator. But . . . HE isn't anywhere near here. Is HE? Suppose, just suppose . . . STOP IT, Mary Anne! It can't possibly be . . .

The footsteps pause, as if someone is . . . listening.

Mary Anne does not move. She is certain the beating of her heart is loud enough to give her away.

The footsteps resume.

Someone clears his throat. Someone quite nearby.

Oh, God . . . dear God, no . . . please, no . . . Slowly, slowly, Mary Anne leans down and plucks loose her slippers, then edges along in her stocking feet toward a side pathway . . .

Suddenly, the glossy-leaved bushes part directly in front of her, and Mary Anne catches a flash of light off of steel-rimmed glasses . . .

. . . and a scream escapes her as a hand closes around her wrist . . .

"I am terribly sorry, Mrs. Brandon. I did not mean to startle you!"

Gradually, Mary Anne's breathing slows to normal as she allows herself to be led back around the path to the settee, where she makes herself comfortable and finally dares, even in her pink-faced embarrassment, to look into the face of the man who has pulled up a chair and now sits across from her--his expression all concern, yes, but just there, the tiniest glint of merriment that he cannot for the life of him conceal.

And Mary Anne cannot help grinning in response, even as she exclaims, "Eamon de Valera, don't ever scare me like that again!"

Mary Anne walks slowly about among the flowers, breathing in the scents and allowing them to calm and soothe her.

Miss M had been right, that Renie would probably not feel very much like talking. It seems that her pregnancy is making itself felt in some very unpleasant ways, and though the worst of a bout of morning sickness had passed by the time Mary Anne arrived, Renie had simply not been completely up to a "chat" in their regular style: that is to say, at least an hour of alternating giggles and tears and giggles once more. She had, however, gratefully accepted the ginger tea and biscuits, sipping and nibbling--and teasing Mary Anne about her wedding night until the blushing Mrs. Brandon had felt that the lack of Mrs. Gruber at the breakfast table had been quite well-supplied.

And then they had fallen to discussing Renie's pregnancy.

"So, Renie, which would you like? A boy or a girl?"

There is a faraway expression on Renie's face as she murmurs, "Well, I've had a boy . . ."

Mary Anne's feels her throat tighten. The child Renie had borne The Interrogator . . . their dead son. "Dearest, I shouldn't have reminded you of . . . that. I'm sorry."

Renie had reached out, grasped her hand, and squeezed it. "Nothing to be sorry for." Still that peculiar look . . . Renie is still staring off into immeasurable distance, or else she is staring very hard at her armoire, for some reason.

Mary Anne tries to lighten the mood. "Hans told us about it at breakfast. They were all saying downstairs that Hans would make an overprotective father--especially if you have a little girl."

Renie chuckles. "Oh, I can just see it, can't you? Especially if she wanted to go into the family business!"

Mary Anne keeps her expression carefully neutral. "Why, what on earth would be wrong with a well brought up young lady going to work for the Hansbank?"

Much giggling, as Renie taps Mary Anne's arm in mock reproof. "He's going to be on the lookout for fortune hunters, anyway."

"Well, there will be plenty of those--but for more reasons than just the money." Mary Anne smiles at her dearest friend in the Realm. "Because with you and Hans for parents, she'd be a knockout. And smart with it. Money, brains, beauty: she'll be some man's dream woman!"

"Now, Mary Anne, we don't know that it's a girl!"

Mary Anne watches in fascination as Renie smooths her hand across her waist in that unconsciously protective gesture of a pregnant woman. "Will you want to know? I mean, will you let your doctor tell you?"

"I haven't decided." Renie looks up with the old teasing grin. "You know me, Mary Anne--sometimes things just happen!" A pause. "I don't think we'll be able to stay here very long, dearest. Hans will be wanting to get me home--"

"Which will be where?"

A thoughtful look on Renie's face. "Good question! But wherever it is, he'll probably settle me in there and expect me to stay put for nine months." Renie makes a face.

Mary Anne turns toward the window, striving to keep her tone neutral. "You know . . . you're welcome here for as long as you like." But she cannot quite hide the tremble in her voice.

"Mary Anne."

Mary Anne turns.

"Dearest--I know you'll miss me. I'll miss you, too! And we'll love each other just as much, you know, and be just as good friends . . . don't spoil the time I am here, by grieving about the time when I'm not. Now--have a cup?"

And Mary Anne had found that ginger tea, while good for morning sickness and assorted stomach complaints, is equally soothing to other types of ailments . . .

Therese bounded down the stairs two at a time, eager to be away from Dev, and anxious to distance herself from what had already been an awful start to a disasterous day. Certainly a ride was just what she needed.

"Ah, Miss Gellert," the Colonel turned to greet Therese at the sound of her footsteps, "you are rea--" his voice faded as he took in the appearance of the woman standing before him.

Therese looked at him questioningly, and then gazed down at her normal riding attire: form fitting buff breeches with suede wear leathers lining her seat and the insides of her calves, shiney black knee high boots, and a v-necked knit polo shirt, open at the collar. "Is something wrong, Colonel?" she asked him.

"I hadn't realized that you were in need of a riding habit," he began, "I could have found one for you...." his voice faded away slightly.

"Nonsense, Colonel!" Therese smiled up at him, "this is my riding habit.

Colonel Brandon smiled at the younger woman faintly. It had taken some getting used to, seeing the various women of his acquaintence, this one as well, including trousers in their wardrobe, but he had adjusted, albeit with some effort. But this... "I've sent word to the stables, Hayes should be saddling our horses as we speak, if you would care to accompany me?"

"Thank you, sir," she replied, taking his proffered arm. "I am quite looking forward to our ride."

Hayes already had the black saddled and waiting in the cross ties when they entered the stables. He was just placing a saddle on the back of a sturdy grey cob when Therese and Colonel Brandon entered.

"Hello, boy," Therese greeted the black as they approached, petting him on the forehead as he inspected her with a snuff, searching for more apples. "I'm sorry, lad, but I've no more for you at present, you'll have to ask your master." Therese turned to Colonel Brandon. "He is an amazing creature, Colonel, I greatly enjoyed riding him earlier."

Brandon shot the groom a frigid glance as the younger man abruptly ceased his movements. "You rode Menelaus?" he asked Therese in disbelief.

"Well, yes, Colonel, he is a magnificent animal. You do not mind, do you?" she asked, sensing his displeasure.

"Of course not," he replied quickly, not wanting Therese to feel as if his anger was directed at her. "It is simply that Menelaus is not the horse I would knowingly provide as a lady's mount." He shot the groom a meaningful look, causing the young man to blanche. An' t'aint e'en the 'alf of i' poor Hayes thought to himself, sensing his impending demise... "Allow me to show you Cricket, a very sweet little animal indeed."

The smile froze on Therese's face as Colonel Brandon lead Therese over to the grey mare, who was now tacked up and standing quietly. "You want me to ride a pony?" she asked him incredulously. "In a side saddle!?

"Cricket is not actually a pony, she's a cob," he explained, quickly, "and how else would you ride?"

"Why astride, as you do!" Therese assured him. "I'd be off in a heartbeat on that," she assured him with a laugh.

"I see," he intoned, though Therse suspected that he did not. "And you're not pleased with the little mare, either?"

"Oh no," Therese explained quickly, lest she offend. "She looks to be a charming little animal. Mrs. Brandon had mentioned to me that she was not a rider, and Cricket appears as if she will be a steady, gentle mount on which to learn. But after having ridden Menelaus today..." her voice trailed off wistfully.

"You had no trouble controling him?" The colonel was slightly skeptical.

"Oh no, Colonel! He is wonderfully trained," Therese assured him.

"And you would like to ride him again?"

Therese considered the animal. She would LOVE to ride him again. "Well, he is obviously your normal mount, I couldn't possibly ask that of you..." she looked up at him, her big brown eyes working overtime. "...Could I?"

They left the stables some moments later, Therese once again on the black, Colonel Brandon on a large bay hunter. He glanced down at the petite woman riding beside him approvingly. She handled the horse with a light, steady hand, and was obviously completely comfortable with the animal. However, though his original intention had been to visit the caretaker's cottage on the East side of the estate, the idea of showing up with a breeches clad young woman, riding astride, who was not his wife, on the first complete day of his marriage...he sighed. Perhaps they'd ride toward the glen. It was quite deserted, save sheep.

They followed a worn dirt path in companionable silence for several moments, each rider following in the track of a wagon wheel. The English countryside was green and inviting, and Therese felt herself able to relax for the first time since she'd been accosted that morning. She hurt, yes, at times almost unbearably, but she found that a slight shift in the saddle provided momentary relief, and, she believed, was not overly noticable.

In the distance, probably a quarter mile ahead, Therese could see a large, gnarled old tree, its branches leaning over into the path. "Colonel?" she asked demurely.

"Yes, Miss Gellert?"

"Do you see that tree in the distance?" she asked him softly.

"Of course. What of it?"

A wide grin split Therese's features, and she felt the troulbles of her day subside. "Race you to it!" And with that, Therese leaned forward over Menelaus' glossy neck, gave a piercing whistle between her teeth, and pushed him forward eagerly with her legs. The horse sprang ahead, needing little encouragement, and struck out with a powerful, ground covering stride.

On his way to Set 2, The Director bumps into David Weinberg. Grabbing his arm, he pulls him to the side of the pathway. "I need to have a word with you, Weinberg."

David gives him a curious look and pulls his arm from the Director's grip. "Why?" he asks suspiciously. He was just now on his way to Hair and Makeup. He wasn't scheduled to shoot until this afternoon. What could the Director possibly need to talk to him about *now*?

"Where's Bryant?" asks the Director. David glances at his daily rundown. "He's over on the Gold Rush set," he answers matter-of-factly. As if to confirm the authenticity of David's statement, a loud horse's whinny was heard in the distance.

"When the day is over, I want to see you both in my office," states the Director in his no-questions-thank-you tone.

David silently nods.

"And do not talk to anyone about the Achilles' incident in the wardrobe trailer. No one knows that we were there and, for now at least, we need to keep it that way."

David looks confused. "Is he still asleep?" he asks.

The Director furrows his brow .. but shows no love lost for his unconscious cast member. "Yes," he says with an irritated sigh. "Unfortunately, he is."

Just as the Director's warm office quickly takes on a chill, there is a knock at the door that momentarily diverts the attentions of the detectives elsewhere. Without waiting for a go-ahead from within, the door opened and an assistant peeked around the corner.

She addresses the Director as she taps at the watch on her wrist. "We've been waiting for you on Set 2."

The Director, who had completely lost track of time during his interrogation, jumped from his chair. He waved the assistant from the room and then turned towards the detectives while placing one hand in his pocket and running the other through his hair.

"Listen, we'll need to finish this another time?" he states, eminently glad to have been provided a respite from the questions. He motions towards the door. "We have a lot of script to cover today. We're behind on our shooting schedule as it is." The detectives, disrupted from their train of thought, nod agreeably. They could always continue later.

Andrea settles immediately and focuses on Mesmer. "Where am I?"

Mesmer releases her head and reaches for the steaming cup of tea on the night table. "You are in your guestroom at Delaford. Do you remember what time you went outside?"

Andrea glances at Hamlet. "... soon after Hamlet left me. I don't know what time it was."

Hamlet fills in the blanks. "... a little before midnight."

Mesmer nods. Andrea's been outside all night. No wonder they are finding it so difficult to warm her up. He spoons a small amount of the hot tea past her lips. "You have a new bruise on your left cheek. Do you know how it happened?"

Andrea swallows the tea and thinks back to her encounter with The Highwayman. "He hit me when I could not tell him where The Sheriff was being held."

Hamlet endeavors to back up her story a bit. "Who hit you?"

Her memory is jumbled. "The Highwayman. No. The Interrogator dressed as The Highwayman. He was searching for George. Did he tell me the truth? Is George in AR custody?"

Hamlet has no such information. But, Mesmer answers her question while spooning some more hot tea between her lips. "As of yesterday, The Sheriff was in AR custody. I met with him myself. I will report to Commander Hudson your information on The Interrogator and ask her about The Sheriff's status."

Mesmer rises from the bed and hands the cup and spoon to Hamlet, who looks at him strangely. "It's all right Hamlet. I cured Andrea of her aversion to spoons two days ago. Didn't you know?"

Hamlet recalls sharing a plate of food with Andrea at the reception yesterday. Apparently, it was completely unnecessary to feed her as he did, placing each morsel onto her tongue with his fingers. "No. I didn't know."

At this moment, Andrea begins praying for strength enough to crawl under a rock and die.

"Miss Gellert?" Colonel Brandon's deep voice broke through Therese's reverie, and she turned toward him with a slight start. "Perhaps you would care to accompany me on a ride this morning? I believe my dear wife is anxious to see to Mrs. Gruber, and will remain with her for a good while." He paused briefly, and turned toward Dev. "That is, of course, with your permission, Mr. de Valera?"

Sparks flew from Therese's eyes at the Colonel's questioning, but she chose her words carefully in deference to her host. "Colonel Brandon, I do most appreciate and accept your kind offer. A ride with you this morning would be a great pleasure. Though you may be certain that I do not require anyone's permission to accompany you."

The colonel was slightly taken aback at Therese's words, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again. I begin to understand, he thought to himself, what troubles these two... He would be certain to discuss his concerns with Mary Anne, he'd been able to tell by his wife's behavior earlier that the tension between Therse and Dev had concerned her as well. "I do not intend offense, Miss Gellert, I merely extend to Mr. de Valera the courtesy of an explanation, a simple formality between gentlemen."

"Among gentlemen, to be sure," Therese replied stonily.

Brandon did not quite discern her meaning, though he certainly suspected it was not complimentary to Dev, and did not pursue the matter further.

"Colonel, by all means. I certainly hope that you and Miss Therese enjoy your ride." Dev's hazel regarded Therese briefly before returning to his host. "I ask only that you please escort her to and from the stables."

"Do you have reason to believe that either of these men might want Mr. Achilles dead?" asks Sadie in her typical point-blank manner.

The Director frets inwardly. Should he come clean about the entire incident? Or should he just pretend he knows nothing about it? The men (Sinclair, David, and himself) had not *meant* to give Achilles a lethal dose of sleeping pills. Damn that Weinberg anyway! He should have paid more attention to what he was doing.

In an instant, he (perhaps unwisely) decides to pretend he knows nothing about it. After all, if Friedman and his coffee-slurping FBI sidekick were not able to procure any information, they would eventually have to give up their investigation, wouldn't they?

"How do you know he didn't take these himself?" asks the Director with a nonchalant wave towards the small bottle. "Achilles is known for his frequent outbursts and erratic behavior. It stands to reason that he could have taken the pills and the champagne on his own."

Sadie and Friedman look at each other and raise their eyebrows. The Director looks confused by their reaction. Friedman adjusts himself uncomfortably in his seat. "Have you spoken to the medical team about the state of the victim?" asks Sadie.

The Director gives the facial equivalent of a shrug. "Not in any detail. They said the information was confidential."

"Did you have any contact with the victim on the day of the incident?" asks Friedman.

The Director feels hot. Why so many questions? Had he given something away? Another lie. "No. None whatsoever. We spent the whole day shooting the final wedding sequence. Achilles was not involved with those scenes."

"I see," begins Friedman.

The partners train their eyes on the Director as Sadie finishes the thought. "If you haven't spoken to anyone about the victim and you weren't involved with him in any way on the day of the incident …," her voice trails off as she pictures the medical examiner's report. Sleeping pills. Champagne. Forced into the victim as he lay unconscious.

"That is correct," he answers as he looks at her expectantly and then motions for her to continue.

"What?!" exclaims the Director. He'd never heard anything so utterly outrageous.

"The victim is laying unconscious in the lot's wardrobe trailer. Traces of these ..," Friedman retrieves a small bottle from the pocket of his jacket and tosses it at the Director. " .. were found on his lips."

The Director catches the bottle and glances at the label. It looks very familiar. And then he realizes why. It is the same bottle David Weinberg had retrieved from the wardrobe trailer's medicine cabinet the very day the Director had fallen on Achilles .. and then kicked him in the side. He had *assumed* it was aspirin. However, his close inspection of the label proves otherwise. Sleeping pills. Issued to Sinclair Bryant by the resident set practitioner, Dr. F.A. Mesmer.

The Director can not believe what he is seeing. Dear God! What had they done to Achilles?

Friedman watches the Director's face as he studies the bottle. He thinks he sees a glimmer of recognition cross the semi-worn, semi-lined face.

"What is it?" asks Friedman suspiciously. "Does something look familiar?"

A furrowed brow, a shrug, and then .. a self-protective lie. "No."

"Achilles was found to have a lethal dose of that substance in his system," responds Friedman as he points to the bottle the Director is holding. "Exactly who is this Sinclair Bryant person to whom the pills were issued? And who is Dr. Mesmer? Do you know either of these men?"

Brandon exchanges a concerned look with Mary Anne.

Therese is glowering at Dev as if she would very much enjoy killing him, employing a variety of exotic techniques--and, judging from Dev's expression, he would not put up much of a fight against it. The thought flashes through Mary Anne's mind that a man on his way to execution might look cheerful, by comparison . . . and then she hastily pushes the thought away. If any man knows what it it like to live with the threat of death hanging over him, that man is Eamon de Valera. Apparently, however, there are circumstances more grievous to him than any such prospect.

Mary Anne's thoughts are interrupted by a burst of laughter from the other end of the table, where Hans is laughingly fending off accusations that if he has a daughter, he might let young men call upon her . . . when she reaches the age of thirty.

With this reminder that Renie is probably feeling quite miserable upstairs, Mary Anne reaches out for the small silver bell on the table in front of her and rings for Miss MacLeod, who promptly appears, her features composed into the expression of dignity suitable to the housekeeper at the Delaford estate. "Yes, Mrs. Brandon?"

Giggles around the table, as Mary Anne blinks with astonishment. I suppose I'll get used to hearing myself called that, eventually. She pulls herself together and orders, "A pot of ginger tea, please, and some plain biscuits for Mrs. Gruber."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll take it right up."

"Let me know when it's ready," replies Mary Anne. "I will go up with you; I want to see Mrs. Gruber. Talk with her for a few minutes."

Miss M is far too well-schooled at her position to argue, but she does discreetly lower her voice and murmur, "She'll likely no' feel sae much like talkin', ma'am."

"Perhaps not. In that case, I'll not stay with her long, but I do want to speak with her. Let me know when the tray is ready."

"Very good, ma'am."

MacLeod disappears into the kitchen, thinking, Aye, ginger for griping i' th' guts. Happen as she kens wha' she's aboot, that one. The Master didna choose some seely frippery lass . . .

As it happens, MacLeod is far from "seely" herself and readies the tray of tea and biscuits within ten minutes, carrying it proudly into the room for Mary Anne's inspection as Brandon watches approvingly.

Good, thinks the Colonel. She is managing well, so far, and Miss M will be a great help to her. They seem on excellent terms already. Aloud, he says, "Tell Renie good morning for me, Mary Anne, and that I hope she will feel better soon."

"I will, sir."

From the corner of her eye, Mary Anne sees a peculiar expression flit across Dev's face when she addresses that "sir" to Brandon: a look comprised of wistful approval and respect. She sees him glance over at Therese for a fraction of a second, and then give a minute shake of his head, as if over some unfulfilled wish. Therese misses that look from Dev, however, as she, too, is looking at Brandon and Mary Anne, her expression quite unreadable.

Mary Anne is certainly not about to kiss Brandon before their guests, nor address him by any term more familiar than "sir," but the kiss was in her voice and her eyes as she told him, "I will, sir," and as she now adds, "I will see you later."

At the tone of Mary Anne's voice, sly nudges and winks travel around the table.

Mary Anne turns to her guests. "Enjoy your breakfast, everyone." A grin. "I'll go away now, so you can talk about me!" And in the wake of the laughter that follows, Mary Anne leaves the room with Miss MacLeod to go and take Renie her tea.

"You've got to send a search party out after him!" Dana fought the rising edge of hysteria in her voice. PL had gone out alone over 24 hours ago. She waited for a response with her heart in her throat.

The wagon master looked at her, no emotion visible in his face. He thought of how valuable this couple had been to the journey; caring competently for themselves and always helping others as well. As Tenderfeet went, they were fine folk.

"Tell you what, Ma'am. We're fixing to head right into the longest, hottest desert you could ever imagine. I suppose everyone could use a day of rest before we start the next leg. That'll give your man a chance to catch up. I'll tell the scouts to keep a sharp eye out for sign of him."

Therese fought like a wild woman.

Dev had his hands full for several moments, but in spite of her kicking and twisting about on his lap, he was just too powerful for her, and she could not free herself from his grasp. He was secretely surprised at just how strong Therese was for a small woman, but she truly never had a chance against his superior strength. Gradually her struggles ceased.

Therese was mortified. And furious. And, perhaps, just a tiny bit frightened. Up to this point, she'd always admired his well developed arms...."Let--me--go," she bit out. "Eamon de Valera, you have to sleep some time, and I swear by all that's holy I'll..."

"Therese, I told you what would happen if you went out by yourself, yet you deliberately chose to do so. I can't seem to get through that thick skull of yours by speech, so I'm forced to try a rather different approach."

SWAT!

Therese's head jerked up in surprise, and a startled yelp escaped her lips as she renewed her struggles franticall