by M. C. Muir
Oliver’s heavy sigh did not go unobserved by the doctor. He continued. ‘Might I take the liberty to enquire after Mrs Pilkington, and Mr Crosby and his wife who sailed with us when we departed the colony? Is the carpenter at sea or did he find work here in Portsmouth?’
‘Mr Crosby was engaged as a wright at the Naval Yard and has no wish to ship out. He and his wife have taken rooms near the dockyard. Mrs Pilkington is no longer my housekeeper. As you will have noticed I have engaged another woman in that role. Connie – Consuela assists me with patients on a regular basis. She and Charles reside under this roof, though during the week, Charles attends the Academy.’
Oliver was surprised. Was there something more to the relationship between the doctor and the widow? he wondered. An awkward lull in the conversation followed, while Oliver cleared his thoughts. ‘There is another item I wish to speak with you about, Jonathon. It is of a personal nature and a cause of great embarrassment to me. Of all the people I know, you are the only one I can approach for an honest opinion.’
The doctor leaned his head to one side. ‘Captain, I may be a few years your junior and lack your worldly experience gained through travel to foreign parts, but as a member of the medical profession, having worked with the dregs of society in the London Borough Hospitals, having witnessed sights and sounds even a sea captain would find hard to tolerate, having had dealings with resurrectionists – body snatchers, and having personally suffered fever in the tropics, and treated hundreds of dying soldiers in Gibraltar during the time of the epidemic, I can assure you there is little I have not seen and, can honestly say, there is nothing that disturbs me. I invite you to share your problem with me. Whether I can be of help is yet to be determined. However, I can assure you it will go no further than these walls.’
The mention of Gibraltar provided Oliver with the opening he needed. It reminded him it was Dr Whipple who had attended his friend, Susanna, before her death and that the doctor had been aware of a relationship that existed between them.
‘You treated a young Portuguese lady in Gibraltar on my behalf,’ Oliver said.
‘A tragedy,’ Jonathon Whipple replied. ‘I was sorry for your loss. I know you had a great affection for her and she for you.’
Oliver reached for his cup, swallowed the contents, and began. ‘I find myself confronted by a situation I did not know existed until a few days ago. When I returned home from sea, there was a private letter awaiting me. Fortunately, it had been addressed to the care of the port admiral in Portsmouth.’ He touched his hand to his waistcoat pocket. ‘I wish to share the contents of that letter with you.’
The doctor leaned back in his chair as Oliver retrieved the envelope and placed on the table.
‘Several years ago, during a brief visit to Cornwall, I was introduced to a young widow, Senora Vargas. She was accompanying the wife of a Portuguese diplomat who was paying a visit to the West Country. They were all from Funchal, in Madeira – the place where she lived. On meeting Susanna, we immediately found we were attracted to each other and very quickly a brief but intimate friendship developed.’
‘Forgive me for asking an imprudent question, but were you not married at the time?’
‘Indeed, I was and had been for several years. So I knew nothing could ever come of the relationship. After that, for months, perhaps years, we saw nothing of each other and never corresponded. Subsequently, however, whenever my ship touched those islands, I could not resist the desire to call on her. As you will realize, our meetings were very few and far between. The last time I saw her was when she visited me in Gibraltar during the epidemic. And it was there you treated her and she sadly succumbed to the malignant fever.’
‘Those terrible days and weeks are imprinted on my memory. I will never forget them.’
Oliver took a deep breath. Nor could he. ‘When I returned home last week, this letter was waiting for me. It was from a solicitor in Lisbon, advising me that some years prior to her death, Susanna Vargas had borne a daughter and that the child was mine. He requested my instructions.’
The doctor’s expression changed, first to one of surprise and then to grave concern. He leaned forward.
‘Were you previously aware of this situation?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘It was the first I had heard of it. It came as a total shock.’
‘Why do you think she withheld this fact from you for so long?’
‘Because she knew I had a wife.’
The doctor’s brow furrowed. ‘And until this recent revelation, you had no inclination of a situation that had existed for quite some time?’
Oliver shook his head again.
‘No pressure or claim was put on you regarding your paternity?’
‘Knowing Susanna, she would not have done that. Besides, she was in a comfortable financial position and would have been able to meet any expense without calling on my help.’ He sighed again. ‘In fact, I think the child would have filled a void in her life.’
The doctor’s brow furrowed again. ‘I find it hard to believe that there was no evidence of the child during, at least, one of your visits.’
Oliver paused. ‘I saw nothing to indicate a child was present in the house and have cast my mind back, over and over again, as I tried to recollect the words we shared together. As you can imagine, the time I spent in the Portuguese port was fleeting and my time with Susanna was brief in the extreme.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘I admit I indulged myself in brief interludes of exquisite pleasure cut short by the demands of my office.’ He sighed. ‘Only once when I was holding her, I remember hearing an infant cry. I was always on the alert for the sound of a cannon shot coming from the harbour, telling me to return to the ship, so the infant’s cry was unusual but I thought nothing more of it. Rather, I drew the conclusion that the child belonged to her maid, Isabella.’
‘And how long ago was that?’
‘It was October in 1803. A little over two years ago.’
‘So the child is now perhaps three years of age?’
‘That would be correct.’
‘And where is the infant presently?’
Retrieving the letter from the envelope, Oliver offered it to the doctor. ‘Since Susanna’s death, she has been in the care of a family member in Lisbon – an ageing aunt. However, ill-health has meant that this relative can no longer continue her guardianship. I am advised the child is mine and that she was named Olivia – appropriately. The solicitor asks that I take responsibility for her as I am her rightful father.’
‘Do you believe this claim to be true?’
‘I have no reason to doubt it, though I wish I could,’ Oliver said.
‘And what is stopping you from exercising that right? How can the paternity be proved?’
‘I shall not contest the fact.’
‘Has your wife raised an objection?’ the doctor asked.
‘I have not told her and could not.’ Oliver sighed deeply. ‘Regrettably, my wife and I are no longer close and extended periods of time spent at sea do not aid in reversing that situation. While Mrs Quintrell continues to enjoy the luxuries afforded by my position and the considerable amounts of prize money I have accrued over the years, there are much more than sea miles between us.’
‘Perhaps you could persuade her,’ the doctor quizzed.
‘I know my wife and her views,’ he said. ‘She has been outspoken about Lord Nelson’s relationship with Lady Hamilton and the ongoing hurt caused to Lady Nelson over the years. She expresses her feelings with bitterness and disgust bordering on rage. Sadly, I feel if my wife was called upon to accept the infant under our roof, she would reject it and the child would grow up in an atmosphere totally devoid of affection. That is not what Susanna would have wished.’
‘Forgive my boldness, but have you considered ending the relationship.’
‘With Victoria? No, I would not do that,’ Oliver said. ‘That is the dilemma that confronts me and the reason I am approaching you for your advice, direction
and assistance. You are the only friend I can speak candidly to on this matter.’
The doctor leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and intertwined his fingers. He lowered his voice. ‘I appreciate you sharing this news with me but, as you know, I am not a married man, nor am I well-practiced in relationships, therefore I am at a loss as to how I can help you.’
Oliver took a deep breath before continuing. ‘The person I had in mind, but who I am in no position to approach about a solution to this problem, is Mrs Pilkington.’
The doctor’s eyebrows rose.
‘Do you think she would consider raising a child that is not her own. The reason I arrived at this proposition, is her acceptance and obvious devotion to the orphaned boy, Charles Goodridge who she cared for when his parents died.’
The doctor leaned back. ‘Are you asking me if this good lady would take on the responsibility of another child?’
‘I am. As the child’s legal guardian, there would be ample funds for both her and the child, not only now, but in the years to come. I would make sure of that.’
‘And what if Mrs Pilkington were to remarry?’
‘The funding would continue until the girl came of an appropriate age – let us say twenty-five. And I would hope that any adoption that took place would be accepted by Mrs Pilkington’s future husband.’ He paused; his features expressing the weight bearing down on him. ‘I beg your advice, Jonathon. I do not wish to see my daughter raised in an orphanage, either in England or Portugal, and, at my age, I do not wish to retire from the service to care for an infant.’
‘Leave it with me, Oliver, I will speak with Consuela on your behalf but I think I know what her immediate response will be. She is a good-hearted woman.’
Oliver looked hard at Doctor Whipple. He had seen that look in his eyes before. Firstly, when Mrs Pilkington was carried aboard after being brutally attacked on the streets of Punta Arenas and, later, at sea off South America when she was sent aboard the 74-gun ship and he had been obliged to remain on the frigate. At that time, he had noted how the doctor’s heart had ached when he was parted from her. It was obvious an affection existed between them.
‘I realize this is a lot to ask, Jonathon. You have already accepted the boy, Charles and allowed him to reside under your roof. Now I am asking another enormous favour.’
A light knock on the door interrupted them.
‘Come,’ the doctor called.
‘Beg pardon, sir. May I take the tray?’ the housekeeper asked. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’
‘Thank you, no.’
The china cups rattled on the saucers as the housekeeper removed them.
‘Let me interject,’ Jonathon Whipple said. ‘Sailing with you aboard Perpetual was one of the most notable experiences of my life. While my memories stretch back to my time serving the London Borough Hospitals and my days of study in Edinburgh, you alone allowed me to broaden my knowledge and experience both adversity and adventure, be it for good or bad. For the present, I have all I wish for. Subsequently, having learned only this morning of the victory of our fleet at Cape Trafalgar, in the days and weeks to come, with the return of damaged ships and wounded men, I believe my services will be called on both here in Portsmouth and at the Haslar Hospital. For that reason, I do not see me leaving Portsmouth in the foreseeable future.’
Oliver was obliged to agree.
‘Regarding your situation, I can assure you your confidence is safe with me and I thank you for holding me in high esteem. Leave it with me, Oliver. I will speak with Mrs Pilkington on your behalf and, though I cannot answer for her, I believe she will willingly consider your proposal.’ Sliding the letter across the table and returning it to the captain, he added, ‘However, it will be necessary for you to put this request to her personally. I will be happy to facilitate a meeting, to act as witness, or to engage Mrs Crosby to attend as a chaperone, if you think that would be appropriate. I can guarantee she will also hold your proposal in confidence. If you prefer, I can refer to the child as your ward and not your daughter.’
‘Please speak honestly with Mrs Pilkington and explain the situation as it exists. And put the idea to her. I shall be here or in London for the coming weeks, at least until arrangements are made for Lord Nelson’s funeral, or I receive new sailing orders, though I think the latter is unlikely.’
The doctor nodded. ‘If the child is presently in Lisbon, how will she arrive here? Do you intend to collect her?’
‘I cannot offer to do that. However, pending the outcome of your conversation with Mrs P, I will write to the lawyer and make all the necessary arrangements for her travel to England. The packet boats take only a few weeks to sail from Lisbon to Portsmouth. However, an exchange of correspondence with the Portuguese capital and her subsequent arrival may take months.’
‘I gather you have not met your daughter,’ Jonathon asked. ‘Do you know what language she speaks?’
Although Oliver had given the matter considerable thought, this question was not something he had considered. He shook his head.
The doctor answered his own question. ‘Having lived many years in Gibraltar, I think you will find both Mrs Pilkington and young Charles speak Spanish and some Portuguese, so the language should not be a problem.’
Oliver sighed once more. This time the relief was obvious on his face. ‘I shall visit with you again in a few days’ time to learn the outcome. I am in your debt, Jonathon. Thank you.’
Chapter 3
Bembridge – Tuesday, 4 Dec 1805
It was now almost a month since news of Britain’s victory at Cape Trafalgar and Lord Nelson’s death had arrived at Falmouth on the Cornish coast. From that port, only 30 miles from Land’s End, word had been conveyed to London and on receiving the long awaited news, presses were quickly turning. Newssheets were printed and distributed to the counting houses, coffee shops and taverns, some carrying a full transcript of Lord Collingwood’s message.
Since that time, however, very little additional information had filtered back to England. Rumours were rife that following the battle, a storm had struck the Spanish coast damaging ships of all three fleets and washing wreckage and bodies ashore. But this, as yet, was unconfirmed.
What was strange was that after this lengthy period of time, since the fleet of fighting ships had sailed from Spithead, not a single ship had returned. On the docksides and in the naval yards, even in the fishing villages along the coast, the initial elation had turned to concern. Cheers had been replaced with tears and in the towns up and down the Channel, wives and families were becoming impatient for the safe return of their menfolk. Their voices were being heard on the streets. Was the news of Nelson’s victory fact, or a ploy to placate those left at home? And at what cost? Many other questions followed. How many ships had been lost? How many lives lost? How many men had survived? How many would return? And, more importantly, where were they now?
The only news, relayed from London, confirmed that there was to be a state funeral for Admiral Lord Nelson and all naval officers who wished to receive an invitation to attend the service must apply. After members of the royal household, ministers and members of parliament, high ranking naval and military officers, ministers of religion and masters of the various Guilds and other notables were accounted for; a limited number of tickets would also be available to members of the public. The news was formal and impersonal and did nothing to allay fears, nor answer any of the questions, nor reduce the rumours that were spreading.
Standing on the sandy beach close to where the muddy Bembridge River oozed into the Solent, Oliver Quintrell gazed across Spithead. Both the sky and water were dull grey with a dark distant smudge indicating the horizon and the port towns of Gosport and Portsmouth.
A breeze of chill wind, blowing off the Isle of Wight, ruffled the Solent. The water looked uninviting. Even the gulls balanced one-legged on the sand in preference to bobbing on the troubled surface. Although, in past times, the captain had swum regu
larly in the river’s mouth – much to the chagrin of his wife – it now being mid-winter, he had no inclination even to remove his cloak. Having served for the past six months in the warmth of the Jamaica station further enforced his resolve. A brisk walk along the surrounding hills and the beach nearest to his home was currently his preferred alternative form of exercise.
During what seemed like a long interlude, though it only amounted to four days, Oliver had paid another visit to Dr Whipple. While his first meeting had been embarrassingly uncomfortable, his second filled him with much relief. While it was not ideal that his daughter would be raised under another man’s roof, the doctor assured him the child would receive the love and attention Susanna would have showered on her from the young widow, Mrs Pilkington.
Subsequent to his meeting in the doctor’s premises, Oliver had despatched a letter to the legal firm in Lisbon explaining the proposed arrangements. He had no idea how long it would take for a reply to be forthcoming. Prior to the conflict, the packet boats had taken only two weeks to sail to England and, as Portugal had remained neutral during the fighting, he hoped the mail deliveries would be unaffected. If he was ashore when a letter arrived, arrangements would be made for the child to travel to Portsmouth and be delivered into the care of Mrs Pilkington, care of Dr Whipple’s house on High Street. Oliver hoped he would have the opportunity to meet his daughter before he took up his next commission. But if the mail was as slow as the returning war ships, it was likely he would sail before any arrangements could be completed.
On reaching the mouth of the small tidal estuary, the grey silt and muddy banks were replaced by firm yellow sand dotted with pebbles and seashells. Stopping for a moment, Oliver leaned down and, despite the cold and his previous convictions, removed his shoes and stockings and stretched his toes in the cold damp sand before picking up a pebble and tossing it into the sea. Looking beyond the line of foam curling from the small breaking wavelets, he turned his gaze down the Solent towards the English Channel.
