by Maria Grace
“I meant no offense my dear, you should know that of me. I am only interested in what is best for you.”
“So, I imagine you wish to warn me away from him.” Anne stopped and locked her gaze with Lady Russell who waited for Anne to back down.
She did not.
Finally, Lady Russell blinked. “By no means. Why would I do such a thing? In order to secure her future, a young woman must marry well. If anything, I am pleased. He is a good enough sort of fellow and would—”
Anne lifted her open hands. “Stop. Pray just stop. I do not wish to have this conversation with you, not now and perhaps not ever.”
“You are still angry with me …”
“I have no wish to discuss that either. Pray excuse me. You will have to find someone else to read your letter to you. I must go.” Anne dropped a tiny curtsy and dashed through the garden to the dirt road, not slowing until Kellynch Cottage was out of sight.
Lady Russell would never admit to her error over Wentworth.
At the time, her arguments seemed sound: a sailor of no fortune was far too big a risk for Anne to place her future—and that of her children—upon. The years had proven Lady Russell wrong, though. Anne had been a fool to listen, and no amount of time, or attentions from a man like Charles Musgrove, would ever change that.
Intermezzo 1
May 1809
Wentworth paused to adjust the canvas bag slung over his shoulder. The torches within made it an annoying, awkward bundle, bouncing along his back. A crisp breeze, smelling of salt air, forced its way through the trees, rustling branches and leaves as if to remind him that he should take care; he was merely a visitor to Gibraltar.
Being landside never felt quite right, not since those heady days spent near Kellynch when he was tempted to tie himself to the shore once more. That would not happen again. The sea was home to him now, and, if he had his way, would be for the rest of his life.
He dragged his sleeve across his forehead, leaving a dark stain across the drab fabric. Hot, but not bloody hot. Just past its zenith, the sun’s kiss left him sweating and decidedly inelegant. But what did that matter out here on the side of an island mountain? There was little elegant company to be found. Some who pretended to sophistication to be sure, but little of the real stuff.
It was not as though he had any want for stylish company, though. Sampling it once was quite enough. Miss Anne Elliot had left him with sufficient heartache for a lifetime.
Inconstant, weak-willed, mild-mannered, spineless …
No, giving into those thoughts would do him no good now nor probably ever. He pinched his temples. Enough hours, days, weeks had been lost in those resentments. It was high time to leave those behind. Just as he had left England behind.
Damn, there were days he still managed to miss them both.
He tamped his walking stick down hard on the rocky path and continued his trudge up the steep trail. Another salty breeze rattled the surrounding pine and olive trees, carrying some of the heat away from the back of his neck. Quiet, the woods were so very quiet. How long had it been since he had been genuinely alone?
Months, easily months. There was no solitude aboard ship.
The Laconia was safely tucked away in the port, enjoying some needed repairs as his men partook in leave. The opportunity to be away should have been restorative, a welcome bit of relaxation from the pressures of a ship captain’s duties.
It should have been. But it left him far too much opportunity to think, to be alone with his thoughts and worse, his feelings. He shook away the twitchy feeling in his shoulders. Everyone was better off when that could be avoided, especially himself. No, he needed something to do, some occupation to capture his attention away from those thoughts, one that required his full attention.
Where better to do that than St. Michael’s cave? Exploring it with only the light of his torch, fighting the obstacles alone; one mistake, one fall, one doused torch from death in the chill, dank, darkness. A proper and welcome distraction for certain.
Such an amazing, glorious place it was—how could he not wish to revisit it? In the flicker of the torch light, astounding, unearthly structures towered all around him, glistening water droplets like gems twinkling, beckoning him in farther. Perhaps one day he would attempt to explore further into the caverns—but there were already rumors of men lost forever in the bottomless recesses. His heart might have been ill-used, but not so much as to occasion losing himself in the darkness.
At least not on most days.
He was getting close. The scent of damp limestone rode the edge of the wind now, replacing the saltiness. Cool and earthy, it had an appeal all its own, rather like the cave itself. He shaded his eyes and peered down the trail, the craggy, overhung cave entrance just visible.
A piercing scream, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, ricocheted against the rocks, echoing and amplifying before it faded into the stony landscape. The raucous chittering of the local apes followed.
Blast and bloody botheration!
A screaming cat he could have ignored, no matter how fond he was of the creatures, but not those frightful Barbary apes. Irrational though it was, those dreadful beasts with their mocking laughs and their not-quite-human faces—he shuddered and quickened his step. Nothing should be left to the mercies of those little monsters.
The cave’s mouth rose up before him and, just beside it, a mob of the stinking, tawny-furred little apes converged around something, shrieking and poking at it. Another feline scream pierced the air from the midst of them.
Wentworth brandished his walking stick, swinging it into the middle of the pack. Several satisfying thuds and yelps followed. “Get away! Out, out the lot of you! Be gone with you!”
The apes, cowards that they were, screamed and feinted, but finally ran from him and his stick.
“Good riddance! Now stay away!” He shook his stick in the air.
An ape laughed from the branches above.
He stomped toward the trees. If that foul creature—
“Mrooooo.” A spine-chilling, plaintive cry, pain mixed with fear.
He turned toward the rock face. Leathery egg shards lay scattered on the rocky ground. In the center, huddled against the rocks, a slimy black ball of fur, the size of a small cat.
“Mrrow! Mrrrow!”
Prickles rose on the back of his neck. It could not be, could it?
Wentworth crossed the distance in three brisk strides, chest aching. “Poor thing—weren’t you beat all hollow? That won’t fadge at all!” He knelt beside the creature.
“Meeerow!” Great gold eyes stared up at him as the creature hissed.
“I know you’ve had an awful row there, but you have nothing more to fear, little fellow. Those apes are gone.” He extended his left hand, fingers curled toward himself.
It reached out to sniff his fingers, long and deep, then his hand and wrist. A long, forked tongue licked his fingertips.
“What an excellent little fellow.” He nudged it toward his hand, his heart beating so hard the creature must surely be able to hear it.
“Mrrow!” It crawled, gooey and cold, into his palm and wrapped its long, black, serpentine tail around his wrist. Tiny claws on its front paws grabbed his shirt sleeve for purchase. He lifted the creature to look eye-to-eye with him.
Its front half, though matted and wet with egg slime, appeared to be a large black kitten with huge glittering eyes and a very pathetic expression. Extra-large front paws bore noticeable thumb toes. The rear half, covered in glistening ebony scales, should have been paired with a huge black snake. But it was firmly attached to the front half of a newly-hatched tatzelwurm.
Wentworth’s hand trembled just a bit, and his breath caught in his throat.
The little dragon pushed its cold, soppy head into his face and rubbed it along Wentworth’s stubbled cheek. “Hungry!”
Of course! How could he have not thought! With his right hand, he reached into his bag. Just a little farther—y
es! Wrapping paper crinkled under his fingers. He pulled a small parcel from his bag. Thank goodness he had planned ahead—granted, not for a dragon hatching, but food was food.
The tatzelwurm began rumbling. Purring, and he had not yet been fed? What a splendid little creature!
He wrestled the parcel open one-handed and pulled off a piece of ham. Not the ideal first meal for a newly-hatched dragon, but it was all he had. He held up the tidbit.
The creature squeaked happily and gobbled the morsel down so fast it almost caught Wentworth’s fingertip in his teeth. Hatching hunger should not be underestimated.
Who would have thought Croft’s training him to befriend a companion dragon would prove useful after so many years—and rejections—and in such a place as this?
“Mooore?” The tip of its tail flicked against Wentworth’s arm.
“Of course.” Wentworth offered another bite. And another and another, until the little creature’s belly was quite distended, and its eyes blinked lazily.
“Mrooo.” The tatzelwurm yawned, breath smelling like ham. How could a creature so small have such a very large mouth?
“Now I should think it is time to clean you up. Would that be acceptable?” When no protest registered, he fished a handkerchief from his pocket and scrubbed egg slime from the rich black fur until a big-eyed, long fanged, ball of black fluff stood in his hand. “What a handsome little fellow you are.”
It licked its shoulder, then stretched its neck for a scratch under the chin.
Wentworth obliged. “Do you know how you came to be here? Did you hatch in a nest?”
“Just broke shell. Awful things dropped me here.” Its voice was surprisingly deep and just a mite hoarse.
“I see.” Wentworth scratched behind the tufted, furry ears. “I am sorry, that is a bloody difficult way to make a start.”
It—he, the creature was male—rubbed his cheek, against Wentworth’s petting hand, rearing back slightly on his muscular tail to reach, purring so loudly, Wentworth’s chest rumbled in time.
“What would you like to do now?” Wentworth held his breath. Let not this not be as the last time.
He blinked up at Wentworth. “No like things.”
“I hate them.”
“You keep things away?”
“Most of the time I live on a ship where there are no things.” Wentworth sat back against the rock of the hillside, drawing the tatzelwurm close.
“No things? Like that.” He purred and licked Wentworth’s palm with a rough, forked tongue. “What ship?”
How did one explain a ship to a newborn dragon? “Like a nest that floats on the water. I go many places.”
The wyrmling cocked his head to and fro. “To places with things?”
Wentworth shuddered. “No. This is the only place I have ever been with things.”
“Go with you?” The little chirrup at the end of his question sounded so hopeful. He nestled in closer to Wentworth’s chest.
“Ship’s cats are very welcome. Black ones are considered particularly lucky and ones with many toes like you are especially welcome.” He stroked the top of the tatzelwurm’s head. “I should think you would be well-liked there. You would of course have to tell my shipmates you are a large cat.”
“Can do.” A cool serpentine tail slipped under the edge of Wentworth’s coat and fluffy paws folded against his chest.
“What do you think of the name Laconia? It is the name of my ship. Landed dragons share the name of their estate. It seems a ship’s dragon should share the name of the ship.”
“Yes. Good.” Laconia purred and rested his chin on his paws. “Sleep now. Stay you.” A moment later, he drew in the deep breaths of sleep.
Wentworth cradled Laconia to his chest and stared up into the clear sky, eyes prickling. Had this really all just happened? He draped his arm over Laconia who rumbled just a little louder.
There was a baby dragon asleep in his arms. A dragon—one that called him Friend! And he only had to beat off a pack of apes for the privilege. He dragged his free arm across his eyes. He was a true Dragon Mate now, just like Croft and Sophy always insisted he would be. Who would have thought?
Laconia snored softly, in time with his breathing, and half-opened one eye to stare adoringly at Wentworth.
How long had he envied the Crofts for their Dragon Friend, White? Not that he would ever have admitted it aloud, but he had been jealous. It was hard to hear dragons, to be a member of the Blue Order, and not have a dragon Friend.
No more though, not with this fine fellow as his companion. He stroked Laconia’s silky fur, right behind his ears; Laconia closed his eye again and purred in his sleep.
His crew would welcome the little creature—truly a sign of good fortune for their next voyage—especially when he told them he had rescued it from the hands of those horrid apes. Most of his men detested the creatures as much as he did. Though they had been enjoying good fortune, a lucky “cat” to reinforce that sense would not hurt. The men always performed better when they thought luck was in their favor.
Wentworth chuckled. No doubt they would spoil the little creature when his back was turned. Laconia would like that. What dragon would object—especially after making such a start in the world?
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, warmth—was that contentment?—surging over him in waves, carried on Laconia’s purrs. Dragon thunder! Years, it had been years since he had felt this way—or any way at all.
It was good to feel warm and alive again.
Chapter 2
June, 1809
In the month that followed, the Elliots and the Musgroves dined together three more times: once at Kellynch, once at Uppercross and once at Barnfield, a place barely large enough to be considered an estate according to Father. Four morning calls were made between the ladies of Kellynch and Uppercross, with Elizabeth and Mary included on two of them. Several card parties and assorted encounters in the village made a total of at least a dozen meetings between the two estates. A great deal of society between two houses otherwise unconnected to one another. Every time it came up in conversation with Lady Russell, she cocked her head with a knowing look and clucked her tongue.
At least that was the limit of her meddling. A blessing to be sure.
The warm summer breeze carried the scent—and perhaps, if it were possible—the taste of the blooming peonies that Lady Elliot had planted in the broad flowerbed on the east side of the garden to celebrate the birth of each of her daughters. Did Father know that was why she planted them? Probably not.
Bees darted from blossom to blossom, filling the garden with a low hum. Anne’s white muslin skirts caught on the abundant green leaves as she picked her way through the sunshine and blossoms, the path she trod barely discernable between the spreading bushes.
Mama had placed many such footpaths through her garden, as though to tempt or perhaps test her visitors. Mama always had a fondness for those souls curious and adventurous.
People very unlike her middle daughter.
Once, when Anne had been very small, she had encountered Mama and Lady Russell talking to the colorful little birds that darted through the garden, acting as though they were having a conversation with them, as though the birds were talking back. Mama even went so far as to call them her little garden dragons!
But when Anne dashed in to join them, asking to see the dragons too, Lady Russell had given her such a very queer look. Even the birds twittered at her strangely.
Lady Russell crouched in front of Anne, looking directly into her eyes. “You have such a vivid imagination, dear. But there are no dragons here. There is no such creature; you must not say such outlandish things.” Mama had agreed.
Apparently, she was not interesting enough to include in their little game.
Anne buried her face in a large pink peony blossom. The soft petals tickled her nose as she sighed. Would Mama approve of her now—or would she have found Anne as dull and boring as Elizabeth and Father
did? She lifted her head toward the sunshine, eyes closed, and drew a deep breath of intoxicating garden air.
Miss Hamilton—no it was Mrs. Smith now—had always loved peonies. In her most recent letter, she mentioned planting them in mews behind the townhouse she and her husband shared in Bath. What would it be like to be married and manage a home of her own, planting what she wanted, where she wanted it? Heady stuff, indeed.
“Miss Anne?” What was he doing in the garden?
Charles Musgrove had been appearing at Kellynch with some regularity, calling weekly it seemed. Whether that was a good thing or not, remained to be determined.
“Miss Anne?” He stopped, a little breathless, in front of her, sweat trickling down the side of his round face. His cheeks were a mite redder than usual and the starch on his cravat a bit wilted, probably from the heat of the day. Father would not approve of his color nor his starch.
“Good day, Mr. Musgrove.” She dipped in a small curtsied and inclined her head.
“It is a good day. Quite a good day, I think. Would you care for a walk in the garden?” He gestured back toward the main path, his deep green coat blending in with the leaves and stems.
“Why thank you, I should like that.” It was a bit of a lie, on several counts. Was it wrong to be disappointed he wanted to leave her mother’s covert path?
That Charles would prefer the more well-traveled ways was not surprising nor even wrong in the most basic sense of the word. But it was a bit dreary—was that the right way to describe it? Perhaps that was not fair. He was a dependable, regular sort of man. Upright and sensible. Kind and responsible. Predictable and dull. Nothing like—
She hid a clenched fist in her skirts. No! No, those thoughts offered no comfort nor did they change the past. Nothing would change that; nothing could undo what had been done. Lady Russell’s counsel had come from the most sympathetic and affectionate place it could have, however great her error. Dwelling upon it only produced discontent, something that could easily breed bitterness and lead her in a dangerous direction.
