She is lovely and very different, not at all what she expects of the woman who has bedded her husband, who will no doubt bed him again.

Barbara suffers no delusions. She knows that she dallied with a married man, and does not believe her charms so overwhelming that she can keep him from straying again as he strayed with her.

A sisterhood. Three women joined together by lines of blood and lines of battle, engaged in a campaign against one man, for one man. Barbara knows it is a battle she won by default, or perhaps through deceit. Horatio will never know that she did not call the midwife until it was too late for Maria, will never know that Maria begged her to send for help, offered her everything that was hers to give, save Horatio, and that Barbara exacted that price in the end nonetheless.

Maria has her revenge, Barbara thinks as she watches the creature that holds her husband's eye. She feels large and ungainly next to the Vicomtesse, despite the fact that Marie is well-proportioned and opulent, feels a fraud in her gown that seems to sparkle less in the light, the fabrics that seem dull and drab and faded in the light that shines from her husband's eye.

She moves around the room as is her duty, arm in arm with Horatio. They bow and greet together for a time, then separate, and Barbara sees him drawn back toward Marie. Duty plucks at her skirts and she moves to attend it, gracious and graceful in everyone's eyes but those of her husband's, caught as they are by the silvery whisper of his name twisted to a caress in a different tongue.

They are a family, Marie thinks, connected by invisible lines of love and hate and mutual need.

Marie watches Barbara with knowing eyes, sees the realization that flashes. Horatio does not see it, is unaware as he stares so lovingly at her, that theirs is an open secret now, one known by the Comte, by Horatio's wife. She cannot help but smile at the fire in Lady Barbara's eyes, the fury that rages behind the docile bow and the curve of her graceless smile.

It is that look, that sheer frustration that shines in Barbara's eyes, that turns Marie's thoughts to Hornblower, to the way he commands a woman's eye, a woman's heart. She knows he will never be hers, but there is something in his glance now that shines with promise and she wonders if he is worth everything she risks, everything she will sacrifice to be with him.

Her eyes fall to Barbara again and again, studying her lines and movements, watching the way her eyes fall to her husband then skirt over to Marie. She is noble, and a fitting wife, Marie thinks, though there is a coolness in her, passion cooled in the fires of marriage, of duty, of obligation. She wonders about Maria, his wife and mother of his children, of whom he spoke so little, save to wish he could have felt for her what he felt for Marie. She has no delusions that she was more than diversion at first, a regret possibly in the end, an opportunity now. How she must have suffered, Maria, to love this man who cannot love beyond the moment, his heart always and already foresworn to another mistress.

They are his wives, these women, Horatio thinks as his gaze travels from Marie to Barbara, though only one bears his name.

For those months at the Comte's house, Marie was wife and more to him, soothing his brow and keeping him from falling into himself, surrendering to the black pit of despair that loomed never far from his mind, in his soul.

And Barbara wears his name like her own, proud and upright. She bears more burdens and shoulders more weight than he should allow her, but it is one of the things that attracted him to her. The sure capability of duty and service in her slim hands and sturdy figure.

But it is neither of them that weighs on his mind tonight, but another woman who seems so far removed from the shine and sparkle of the night. He smiles slightly, imagining his poor Maria here, so dazzled and befuddled by the bright smiles and glittering candles. She would fawn over silks and wish to touch them, cradle delicate lace in her hand. She would be nothing like a Commodore's wife, nothing like the wife his rank and title deserve and demand.

But she was his and bore his children. She raised them alone and nearly buried them alone and he gave her so little in return. Long nights of wondering and the bitter fear of his defeat and death. He wonders if he offers happiness to anyone he loves - he did love her, he realizes with a smile - and if what he gave her was enough.

He thinks of Horatio and Maria and Maria's thick fingers, red from hard work, tracing over their delicate skin. He thinks of the simple joys that she gave them in oranges hidden in drawers, making a game of it, of hand made clothes and the scent of hard work and hard living that hung on her.

He wonders if he ever told her he loved her, as he whispers the tender endearment in Barbara's ear, offers it to Marie in his eyes. For he does and he did and, for whatever legacy the name Hornblower will ever bear, these women are his family.