Fair Winds and Homeward Sail: Sophy Croft's Story

by Sherwood Smith

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  On a rainy day early in March, not long after the Elliots’ party, Anne and Sophy sat together in Gay Street. The gentlemen had joined several naval friends, going off to some purpose.

  By this time, Frederick had willingly paid all the arrears of intelligence. It was exactly as Sophy had expected. From the time he had come to Taunton without telling her that he was shortly to sit before the board of admirals, she had learnt that he could not bear to disclose what mattered to him most, until he proved to be successful.

  He finished by begging her pardon, but she assured him, “Your happiness must absolve any blame. You have been hardest on yourself.”

  “No,” he said, his gaze dropping to his empty hands. “I find that the worst regret is the anguish I caused Anne. I told myself in anger that she cared not, that she had been weak to listen to these others when she broke our engagement, therefore she must feel the same now—anything but the truth.” He lifted his gaze. “Moreover, if I had come to her in the year eight—well, we could have commenced happiness far earlier.”

  “So you must begin as soon as you may,” she rejoined.

  “As soon as can be contrived,” he had promised, and the very next day, he brought Anne to her.

  Although there must be a tentative beginning, it helped that Sophy appeared to know all, and so Anne was spared having to relate her own history. She had only to begin with the felicity of talking about Frederick.

  But Anne’s time was not completely her own; she owed duty to her family, who must exclaim and regret Mr. Elliot’s sudden departure after sending a hasty note of excuse, and she had her invalid friend depending upon her for news, then there was the uncertain weather. Between all these vexations and distractions, the days slipped into a fortnight, until here they sat.

  Mr. Elliot had not returned to Bath. Sir Walter and Miss Elliot had flattered themselves that he would return to dance attendance on them any day—until Mr. Shepherd, in his distress, sent a shocking missive, and it was this news that Anne had come to impart.

  “We thought that Mrs. Clay had returned home, but she did not. Mr. Shepherd reports that . . .” Anne blushed and looked away. “That she is gone to London. To—to Mr. Elliot. My father and sister are thrown into confusion.”

  “I should say,” Sophy declared. “Upon my word, I should say they might be! Poor woman.”

  “Poor woman?” Anne repeated. “My sister?”

  “Mrs. Clay,” Sophy said low-voiced, as the fire snapped on the hearth. She paused to observe the effect of these words on Anne, who drew up, her gentle face tightened in a frown, but then her brow puckered.

  “You say Mrs. Clay as if she were to be pitied,” Anne said slowly. “And yet no one has forced her into a choice that can only end in her ruin.”

  “Oh, it might end in many different ways,” Sophy rejoined. “She is become an expert in flattering and pleasing—who knows but what someday she might become Lady Elliot yet. I cannot imagine she would be any happier, but . . .” At Anne’s quick look, Sophy said gently, “Frederick did me the honor of repeating certain conversations you held. Was it your respected father who once pointed out that one lady was not the only widow in Bath between certain ages, who had to make shift to live?”

  Anne’s lips parted. She gazed at Sophy, her expression arrested.

  “I apprehend—correct me if I err—the principle difference between the situations of the two women, aside from a long friendship with the one, was a matter of birth. One married a profligate wastrel, and as for the other, who can say, except that he did not provide for his widow and children. No, it seems to me that, aside from old friendship, the one is cherished and the other despised due entirely to circumstances of birth. Am I all out there?”

  Anne could not immediately speak. She wanted to remonstrate, to resist, but her own innate honesty forced her to consider how the circumstances must appear to others; as for friendship, yes, she had formed one with her old teacher, but Mrs. Clay was anything but unfriendly. She would have smiled at Anne if she had received the slightest encouragement. It was true that her conversation mostly comprised cheerful flattery, but so had Mrs. Smith’s, until she and Anne had come to understand one another.

  Sophy went on. “If birth is to become your single criterion for human worth, why are you not at this moment calling upon Lady Dalrymple, and coaxing and flattering the occasional reluctant word out of her daughter?”

  Anne’s color rose, but her expression was more reflective than angry. “But Mrs. Clay—my father—”

  “She might have succeeded,” Sophy said. “Had she been satisfied to wait. And what a life would she lead then? She would have her title, and a fine address, but the rest of you would despise her, and she would be spending every day in company with your father and his looking glasses, and your sister, who would surely not smile at finding her chief flatterer and follower now taking precedence of her. What would her life with Miss Elliot be? How might your good friend Lady Russell receive her?”

  “I did not think of that,” Anne said, low-voiced.

  “You saw only the encroachment of a possible replacement for your excellent mother, which few women could achieve well, birth notwithstanding. That is natural. It is rational. As for the rest, I condition only for this, the adaptation a sailor’s wife must make if she is to be truly happy: that though the world ranks itself as it must, or we would all live in a chaos, we also strive to take people as we find them. Some day I will bore you with the story of Amelia Forshaw, and of Mrs. Groton.”

  “Oh, please tell me now,” Anne said quickly, but at that moment the door was thrust open, and in came the admiral, with Frederick behind him.

  “Ha ha,” the admiral exclaimed, rubbing his hands. “We might see Frederick an admiral yet—or even titled, if he can bring it off, for what news is arrived? Nothing less than Boney is loose!”

  “No!” Anne gasped.

  “Say it isn’t so,” Sophy exclaimed.

  “We wait only to hear it corroborated—you will remember how many times the King of France died in rumor before those Jacobins finally cut off his head at last. Frederick must get himself down to Portsmouth as quick as he can. Therefore,” he looked from one to another, “I suggest a Special License, and Sophy and I can vouch for the excellence of the cathedral in Portsmouth.”

  Anne murmured, “But the wedding clothes—my family—”

  Frederick took her hands. “It shall be however you say. But the admiral is right. I must go. The need will be sharp.”

  “We might very well be in for another ten years,” Sophy said meaningly. “Do you wish to wait?”

  Anne rose with alacrity. “I will tell my relations that any who wish to be there may come to Portsmouth. I know my sister Mary will probably enjoy the bustle, and I would very much have my brother-in-law there, and the Musgroves as well.”

  o0o

  On the wedding day of Frederick and Anne, the news reached Portsmouth that Bonaparte had made his way to Paris.

  Frederick had been given a fine, fast frigate; the entire family was gathered on the platform gazing out at Spithead where Frederick’s ship lay.

  The oars rose and fell in precision aboard the captain’s boat. Sophy could make out the new Mrs. Wentworth sitting in the stern sheets, her face upraised and smiling at Frederick, who lifted his hat one last time toward those on shore.

  Then he sat down next to his wife, and presently both heads turned toward the ship they would soon board.

  The admiral slid his arm around Sophy and squeezed. She, accustomed by long and dear habit, worked her arm under his and pulled his solid warmth against her. They stood side by side in the buffeting wind, watching the pair dwindle into their future, which they believed—whether this war lasted ten years or ten days—would vouchsafe the bride and groom the same happiness they were blessed with every day.

  Copyright & Credits

  Fair Winds and Homeward Sail

  Sophy Croft’s St
ory

  Sherwood Smith

  Book View Café, October 6, 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-555-7

  Copyright © 2015 Sherwood Smith

  Cover illustration © 2015 Amy Sterling Casil

  Production Team:

  Cover Design: Amy Sterling Casil

  Proofreader: Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Formatter: Vonda N. McIntrye

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Digital edition: 20150922vnm

  www.bookviewcafe.com

  Book View Café Publishing Cooperative

  P.O. Box 1624, Cedar Crest, NM 87008-1624

  About the Author

  Sherwood Smith writes SF, fantasy, and romance.

  About Book View Café

  Book View Café is a professional authors’ publishing cooperative offering DRM-free ebooks in multiple formats to readers around the world. With authors in a variety of genres including mystery, romance, fantasy, and science fiction, Book View Café has something for everyone.

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  RONDO ALLEGRO

  Sample Chapter

  Sherwood Smith

  www.bookviewcafe.com

  Book View Café Edition

  September 9, 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-428-4

  Copyright © 2014 Sherwood Smith

  1

  As the eighteenth century drew to a close, it seemed that all the European world was at war.

  A newly widowed woman peered out the rain-streaked windows in hopes that the post had brought a letter from her younger son, which never came; a boy shivered on the deck of a sloop-of-war, sobbing silently in fear and loss as voices shouted in an incomprehensible language around him; a girl walked out of the cook shop where she had been bound, and made up a new name by the time she reached the crossroads.

  All three will be met with, one by one, but my story really begins on a simmering June day in Palermo, Sicily, 1799, as two men stood in an archway under carvings of laughing demons. They gazed out at a young lady, each man with very different thoughts.

  The young lady sat on the rim of the fountain, staring upward. She appeared to be singing softly, though no sound carried across the sun-drenched courtyard.

  Young lady? The younger man, a naval master and commander with his single epaulette, was dismayed. She looked little more than a girl.

  The elder, a discreetly dressed intelligence officer, watched the commander covertly until the naval gentleman spoke: “You say her father is connected to a ducal family?”

  “Yes. We had the father investigated, of course, before we approached him,” the intelligence officer replied in a low tone. “As you would be justified in thinking, what noble gentleman, even a foreigner, performs as a musician in someone else’s court? But the fact is indisputable: her father’s cousin is the Duke of Ponte San Bernardo. Signor Ludovisi is considered a part of Naples’s royal household, but unlike the rest of the titled rabble from various courts hanging on around either the royal family or our legation, he is a master violinist.”

  “Where is Ponte San Bernardo? Or should I say, what?”

  “It lies north, in one of the valleys, Captain Duncannon.” The intelligence officer knew exactly where it lay, but he believed that naval gentlemen—though capital on the waters—were ignorant as children when on land. He waved his hand airily northward. “The title goes back to Frederick III in 1453, which sounds more impressive than it is, as he reputedly handed coronets out like coins on his way to his coronation. This one was in honor of a bridge built by the Ludovisi, a cadet branch of the Ludovisi of Bologna. The duchy itself is the size of an inkblot, where they seem to mainly grow grapes, goats, and children. The girl will inherit nothing. There are numerous cousins in the direct line of inheritance. But it sounds well, does it not? A connection with a duke always sounds well.”

  The intelligence officer paused to take in the effect of these words on the captain. “You perceive I give you the truth, sir.”

  The captain made a gesture that could have meant anything, but would have conveyed to anyone who knew him his opinion of any ‘truth’ offered by intelligence officers. “So he is not a paid musician, yet he takes money from agents from Whitehall?” His expression was habitually severe, heightened by his hawk nose and strong chin; now his mouth thinned. “He’s a spy?”

  “Not at all, not at all, Captain Duncannon! He is a master musician, and in the world of music, gifts are understood,” the intelligence officer soothed, hiding his disgust. Really, these naval officers were so simple! “He receives monetary gifts from King Ferdinand from time to time, usually to acknowledge royal favor after an exceptional performance. Our contributions are regarded in the same light, gifts from His Majesty’s government, to an observer who has English interests at heart, due to his wife being English.”

  “Another word for observer is spy,” thought the captain, who did not, in fact, like or trust the low-voiced, soft-stepping intelligence officers. Reason insisted that such men were loyal to king and country, but Captain Duncannon’s private belief was that there would be far fewer wars if the spies would all go home and employ themselves more honestly.

  That was neither here nor there. So this impoverished cousin to a duke spied for England, but who was to say he wasn’t also being given pecuniary “gifts” by the French, the Spaniards, the Russians, the Ottomans, or any other Mediterranean interest?

  The captain studied with growing doubt the young woman—girl—sitting there so patiently in the middle of that infernal courtyard.

  The intelligence officer cleared his throat, and made another attempt. “As you can see, she appears well-bred. Not even swarthy, as so many Italians are.”

  She was a thin slip of a girl, wearing a plain round gown, her plank-colored brown hair pulled untidily back into two braids.

  The intelligence officer, who had introduced himself only as Mr. Jones, was an expert observer of his fellow man, and perceived his companion’s misgivings. Time was pressing, and Nelson’s trusted Captain Troubridge had insisted that young Duncannon—at three-and-twenty, he was known privately by the younger officers of the fleet as The Perennial Bachelor—would best serve their purposes.

  Mr. Jones lowered his voice to scarcely above a whisper. “I needn’t repeat that Nelson personally takes an interest. I know it’s irregular, and what’s more important, he knows. I was given to understand that anyone who obliges him in this way is sure to make post sooner than later.”

  ‘Captain’ was a courtesy; Duncannon was only a very new commander, his hope, like all his peers, that the rumors of fresh trouble from the French would last long enough for him to gain his step. Once you made it to post, you were on the list for life. Peace could break out, but you would be safely on the ladder to admiral. A shipless master and commander was no better than a lieutenant.

  “All you need do is marry her,” Mr. Jones repeated. “In front of the old man. After which he promises to disclose certain information that Nelson believes is crucial to the retaking of Naples. Signor Ludovisi won’t last out the week, the physician insists. After that, you may do what you wish with the girl.”

  Duncannon turned Mr. Jones’s way. “Is she a papist? If so it won’t do. But however, you said her mother was Englis
h.”

  “Lady Hamilton assures me that the girl’s mother always brought her to church with the English legation.”

  “Who are the mother’s people?”

  Mr. Jones shrugged. “The maternal grandfather, it is rumored, was well-born but a scapegrace, who married against his family’s wishes and took his wife and daughter to Europe. His wife died, leaving him with a daughter named Eugenia. He ran out of money, or was cut off, and using his wife’s name, took up teaching the sword to noble-born boys in Florence. We know nothing for certain of his wife’s people; ‘Johnson’ encompasses, shall we say, many possibilities?”

  As does Jones, the captain thought, disliking the man’s insinuations.

  “Miss Eugenia Johnson was a governess until she married Ludovisi, produced our young lady, and died. There you have it all. If you consider this background unsatisfactory, you are possessed of a near relation who is a bishop, Troubridge tells me. With his aid, you can easily extricate yourself from the legalities.”

  Mr. Jones, perceiving the lengthening of Duncannon’s hang-gallows face, understood that he had made a false step and changed his tack. “Troubridge took care to assure me that though Naples’ court is known far and wide as a hotbed of scandal, there is no evidence of her name among the whispers. I myself investigated, and it’s true. Until the mother died last year, whilst teaching French to some of the royal children, this young lady was apparently counted among the miscellany in the royal wing. As they are, she is a pupil under Maestro Paisiello.”

  The man’s insinuation about his great-uncle, the bishop, was no more than Duncannon had been thinking himself. But hearing the thought spoken out loud irked his sense of what was just. Troubridge himself had sent Duncannon toiling through the summer sun to this benighted palazzo, on A mission of some delicacy, eh? Nelson would entrust it to few, I need hardly tell you.