by Jay Worrall
Penny rose and hugged Bevan. “Thou art a good friend, Daniel Bevan,” she said. “Take York and the wagon. I will bring Charlie home this evening.”
Bevan bowed. “This evening, then.”
The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly. Joseph Willard, the Quaker doctor, soon arrived. Charles thought him a pompous and graveyard-serious middle-aged man. The doctor carefully examined each of the wounded men, removing their dressings, questioning them about their injuries and pains, prescribing medicines, and reapplying poultices and wrappings. “I will assume responsibility for tending these men, but I expect your surgeon to call on me when he is free,” Willard said.
Charles was introduced to the Worrall and Clayton families, who arrived with their carriages and older children to take their share of the more seriously injured away. With Penny at his side, he spoke briefly with each of the men before they were moved, explaining quietly what was being done for them and how they should behave. The three most critically injured, who were to stay with the Browns, were moved carefully into an upstairs room.
A short while later, Dr. Willard found Charles and Penny in the parlor. “Thou may return when I call thee, Penelope Brown,” he said sternly. As soon as they were alone, he sat Charles on a chair and frowned at him. “I do not approve of military officers and military affairs,” he said. “Look what thou hast caused.”
“Yes,” Charles said in a clipped tone; he had had this argument already.
Willard sighed. “Take off thy shirt,” he said. After a period of bending, poking, and stretching Charles’s injuries, the doctor grudgingly pronounced him reasonably fit. “Thou canst do without the sling,” he said. “Thou mayest use thy wrist gently; much of the strength in it will return in time. Thou mayest also begin to put a little weight on thy ankle, but not so much that it pains thee. Continue to use a cane or crutch for another week or two.”
Charles said, “Thank you for all you’ve done. I’d like to pay you for your services.”
Willard appraised him sourly. “I will not accept money for tending to the navy’s injured. I do not approve of what they do.”
“I see,” Charles said tersely.
“As for thee,” the doctor continued, “I understand thou art to marry our Penny.”
“Yes,” Charles said, wondering what was next.
“My wife brought that girl into this world. I have been her doctor all her life and I expect thee to make sure she is content in it.” Charles started to say something, but Willard went on. “I also expect to continue to be her physician and thy children’s. I suppose, for efficiency, that will make thee my patient also, as distasteful as that may be. On this basis I will charge thee one pound, ten shillings for this visit.”
Charles paid him.
Penny entered the room as soon as the doctor opened the door. She found Charles fumbling to redo the buttons of his shirt and, brushing his hands away, she fastened them for him. The touch of her fingers on his bare skin thrilled him. “Thou wilt have to tuck thy shirttails in thyself,” she said primly. Charles pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. She kissed him back for a moment, then pulled her face away. “My parents are waiting for us to speak to them,” she said, her eyes shining. “There will be plenty of time for kissing later.”
“Do you promise?” Charles said, but she had gotten to her feet. He pushed himself upright, and, balanced on one foot, managed to get most of his shirttails down into his trousers. She studied him, straightened his collar, and brushed her fingers through his hair. “That will have to suffice,” she said finally. After he’d collected his crutch she led him to a larger parlor in the front of the house, more formally furnished. George and Elizabeth Brown sat on a sofa with Peter fidgeting expectantly on a chair nearby.
Penny took Charles’s arm and stood close beside him in the middle of the room. “Thou speakest first,” she whispered in his ear.
“Your daughter and I wish to marry,” he said directly. “We seek your blessing.”
George Brown smiled broadly; Penny’s mother did not. “When?” Elizabeth Brown asked.
“As soon as it can be arranged,” Charles answered. “Within the week, I hope.”
Penny’s father rose from the sofa. “If the two of ye are decided on this, then congratulations to ye both,” he said, shaking Charles’s hand and then hugging his daughter.
Elizabeth Brown remained on the sofa. “Art thou truly fixed in this?” she said to Penny.
Penny said firmly, “Yes, Mother. We have spoken about it already.”
George Brown sat down beside his wife and put his hand on her arm. He talked to her in very low tones and patted her hand affectionately. Elizabeth looked undecided, then resigned. She rose and stood in front of Charles. “I welcome thee with small misgivings,” she said. “Penny is my youngest daughter and very special. I let her go reluctantly.” She kissed Charles’s cheek and then Penny’s. “I do wish thee joy,” she said, dry-eyed.
CHARLES STAYED FOR supper with the Browns, eating a simple country meal and answering when spoken to. Mostly he watched his soon-to-be wife with a mixture of anticipation and wonder. Penny talked distractedly with her parents and brother about the unusual events of the day and her plans for the wedding. At the end of the meal, she announced that it was time for her to take Charles back to Tattenall. She had promised Daniel Bevan she would do so, she explained.
“But it’s nearly dark,” George Brown said, a look of alarm spreading across his face. His eyes darted from his daughter to Charles, who tried to look unconcerned and said nothing. “I will take him in the cart myself.”
“No,” Penny said firmly. “I said I should, and I shall.”
“But it will be very late. How wilt thou get home?”
“I can spend the night at Ellie Winchester’s,” Penny said quickly, looking desperately to her mother.
“No,” George Brown said, his voice rising. “I won’t have it. I forbid—”
“George!” Elizabeth said, rising from her chair. “I need thee in the kitchen.”
When the two came back a few moments later, Penny’s mother said, “Make sure thou hast something warm to sleep in.” George Brown looked at Charles and started to speak, changed his mind, and fell unhappily silent.
Penny and Charles sat side by side on the bench of her cart under a crisp January moon as Penny’s mare, Maggie, trotted along the roadway, her nostrils streaming puffs of mist into the cold air.
“What do you think your mother said in the kitchen?” Charles asked as the cart rattled along.
Penny, the reins in her hands, stared at the road ahead. “I have heard there is some question as to whether my oldest brother, Thomas, was conceived before or after their wedding. It apparently caused quite a scandal at the time. My uncle Seth sometimes still teases about it.”
“Oh,” Charles said. “I’d never have guessed.”
Penny turned her head and looked at him. “We must be cautious that no such thing happens to us.”
“Of course not.” He reached over with his uninjured hand, took the reins, and pulled Maggie to a halt. Then he took Penny in his arms and kissed her. “You can’t conceive by kissing,” he said.
“Only ideas,” Penny answered between his kisses. As they kissed some more, Charles’s free hand wandered over her outer clothing to places where it normally would have no business going. When his fingers turned their attention to the hooks on her cloak, she pushed the hand away. “No,” she said. “And we cannot sit out here in the road all night. We’ll freeze to death. Or by thy plan at least I shall.”
Charles took the reins and snapped the mare into motion. The cart soon clattered through Tattenall in the still darkness and up the drive to Charles’s grand new house. The building was dark except for a single candle in a window near the door. He drove the mare to the stables, where they climbed down, Penny helping Charles and handing him his crutch. They unhitched Maggie together and led her to the stable entrance. Charles lit a lantern that hun
g there. He pulled back the heavy door and was greeted with the sound of snoring from the darkness within. Holding up the lantern, they saw the forms of a dozen or more seamen in various postures of sleep on piles of hay or in hammocks slung from posts. Charles closed the door while Penny led her horse to the paddock.
They walked hand in hand back to the house, Penny holding a small bag she had brought with her. Inside were similar sounds of sleeping men—many sleeping men. Charles took the guttering candle from the windowsill and shone it around. Every room he looked into seemed mostly empty of furniture and occupied by sailors curled on the floor, snoring sonorously.
“Now what?” Charles said softly.
“Where is thy bedchamber?” Penny whispered.
“I don’t know. I’ve never stayed here. It wasn’t finished when I left.”
A flickering candle appeared at the end of the hall from the direction of the kitchen. The welcome form of Timothy Attwater in a sleeping cap and long nightshirt padded toward them holding a lighted candle.
“Oh, it’s you, sir,” he said loudly, his voice ringing in the hallway. Nodding to Penny he said, “Good evening, miss.”
“Are there any empty rooms?” Charles asked, trying to forestall any sociable chattiness.
“Oh, yes, sir,” Attwater answered, yawning. “I kept your room free. There’s a made-up bed and all.” He glanced knowingly at Penny. “A big bed, sir.”
“I need two rooms,” Charles said sternly. “One for Miss Brown.”
The steward rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Ain’t another one, sir. Ain’t one that ain’t full.”
“What about at the Winchesters’ house, or my brother’s?”
“Don’t think so, sir,” Attwater said, the corners of his mouth twitching. Charles suspected that his steward was enjoying his role as dispenser of bad news. “The midshipmen and warrants is with Lieutenant Winchester. The rest of the wounded have pretty well filled up your brother’s house.”
“All right,” Charles said. “Penny—Miss Brown—can sleep in my room. Find me a sofa or a table, anything I can lie on.”
Attwater smiled as if appreciating the delicacy of the situation. “Ain’t no empty tables, sir. Lessen I throw somebody off.”
Penny put her hand on Charles’s arm. “Show us Charles’s chamber,” she said to Attwater. “We’ll manage.”
“This way, sir, miss,” the steward said, leading with his candle. He opened a doorway at the top of the stairs, entered, and lit an oil lamp on a chest of drawers inside. “It’s all fixed for you.”
“Oh, my,” Penny said. Inside the room was a spacious bed made up with a man’s nightshirt laid across it, the chest, and a single wooden chair.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Charles said.
“Don’t be silly,” Penny said. “We’re adults. We just need to have an understanding.” To Attwater she said, “Thank thee. Thou mayest return to thy sleep.” Charles heard his steward cackle with laughter as he padded back down the stairs.
“Thou must wait outside,” Penny said, removing her bonnet and reaching to undo her cloak. “I will call thee in a moment.”
Charles waited in the hall until he heard her voice. She lay on the bed with the covers pulled up to her chin, her hair fanned over the pillow. He sat down on the side of the bed. “Where do I change?” he said hoarsely, as if something were caught in his throat.
“Put out the light,” she said. “Thou canst change in the dark.”
Charles blew out the lamp, stripped, and pulled the nightshirt over his head. He slipped carefully into the bed beside her. “Are you sure this is all right?”
“I expect thee to be a gentleman.”
“I expect you to be a lady,” Charles answered and reached for her hand under the covers. He felt her foot tentatively touch his leg. Then her toenails scraped slowly down the side of his calf. He stretched across for her waist and tickled, to which she squealed loudly, then quickly put her finger to his lips and whispered, “Shhhh.”
CHARLES WOKE IN the first light of dawn to find Penny cuddled against him, her cheek resting against his shoulder, breathing softly on his neck. He carefully pushed a little of her hair aside and watched her sleep. After a time one eye flickered open, clear gray with hints of tan around the edges of the iris. He kissed her nose and said, “You were no lady.”
“And thou wert no gentleman,” she answered. She stretched languorously and rolled half on his chest, her fingers toying with the buttons on his nightshirt.
Much later Charles awoke a second time to find himself alone, the bed still warm beside him. He rose reluctantly, dressed, and splashed some water from a bowl on the bureau onto his face. He found Penny, Attwater, and a number of his sailors along with an older woman and two younger ones he didn’t recognize in the kitchen, preparing what seemed to be a very large container of oatmeal on the woodstove. Charles was introduced to Mrs. Attwater and two of her daughters, Daisy and Rose. All three glanced knowingly from Charles to Penny and smiled.
A little later that morning Charles took Penny in the carriage into Tattenall to inquire after the arrangements for their wedding at the old St. Alban’s Church in the village. Charles had written to the rector, William Weddlestone, A.M., from Plymouth soon after Penny had accepted his proposal. He had as yet received no reply, which wasn’t surprising given that he had been at sea almost the entire time. Still, the banns should have been long since posted and other arrangements put into train. It only remained, he expected, to fix a date when the vicar would be available. The sooner the better.
The two sat, mostly silent, side-by-side on the bench as the carriage and horses clattered into the village, turning almost immediately past the old sandstone church into the drive to the rectory. He descended gingerly, hitching the horses to a post in front of the house. They walked—Charles was relying on his cane less each day—to the heavy doorway in what seemed strained silence. Glancing at Penny, he saw that her lips were pursed in a tight line and her eyes fixed straight ahead.
“It will be all right,” he said, and lifted the heavy door knocker. “You’ll see.”
A housekeeper answered the knock. Charles announced himself and Miss Brown, and they were shown into a comfortably furnished parlor with highly polished oak paneling. The Reverend Weddlestone, Rector of St. Alban’s, entered soon afterward. Charles noted that he was a youngish man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with a thin face, receding hair, and well-tailored clothing.
“I am Charles Edgemont of Tattenall and this is Penelope Brown of Gatesheath,” he said by way of introductions, extending his hand. “I wrote to you earlier of our plans to marry.”
“Ah, the naval officer,” Weddlestone answered, a guarded look about his eyes that was not what Charles would have expected. He did not acknowledge the offered hand.
“I have received no reply to my letter,” Charles pushed on. “I was hoping we could set a date for the ceremony.”
“When, pray tell,” Weddlestone answered distantly.
“As soon as possible,” Charles said, put off by the man’s lack of warmth, or even common courtesy. “I shall have to return to the sea in a few weeks or a month.”
Weddlestone focused on something outside the room’s only window. “I cannot marry you at any time,” he said under his breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I cannot perform the ceremony,” the rector said in a stronger voice. “I’m sorry.”
Charles thought there must be some mistake. “Why not? I wrote—”
“I made inquiries,” Weddlestone said, more boldly now. “Mistress Brown is a nonconformist, a Quaker. I do not hold with such heathen views; they are anathema to the very being of the Church. I cannot, will not marry nonbelievers.” He spat out the words “nonconformist” and “Quaker” as if they were synonymous with “Satan” or “Beelzebub.”
Charles felt Penny stiffen beside him and saw her glare at the priest, the color draining from her face. “Thou false Christi
an,” she began. “Thou pretentious priest. I would not have thy—”
“Penny,” Charles said quickly, “there has been a small misunderstanding. The Reverend and I need to speak in confidence for a moment. If you would step into the garden, I’ll join you there as quickly as I can.”
She looked at him with narrowed eyes, further elaborations on Weddlestone’s spiritual views not far from her lips. When he added, “Please,” she made her way wordlessly to the door, closing it loudly behind her.
Alone with Weddlestone, Charles paused and looked around the comfortable room. “You have a nice living here in Tattenall,” he said offhandedly. “What’s it bring you, two hundred fifty, three hundred pounds a year? Quite a plum for a man your age. You’ve made inquiries; you must know who I am, do you not?”
Weddlestone nodded warily. “You’ve purchased the old Tattenall Hall.”
“Yes,” Charles said. “I own the entirety of it and also a half-interest in the Edgemont lands.” He paused. “To be clear, I own almost all of your living and my brother owns a good deal of the rest.” Before Weddlestone could reply, he went on, “You are a courageous man. It must be hard to refuse a wounded naval officer the chance to marry the woman he loves; particularly one who controls your employment. I respect that.”
“I mean nothing personal against you,” the rector said, meeting Charles’s eyes. “I have read about your accomplishments in battle. But a Quaker? They are the bane of the country, worse even than Ranters or Presbyterians; a stubborn, hard, unchristian people.”
“Penny can be as stubborn as any woman,” Charles said with a smile. “But I assure you that she is neither hard nor unchristian. You do know that the moment we are married she will no longer be a member of their society.”
“Do you mean that she will convert?”
“I don’t know about that. She will be disowned by her religion. Her view toward your Church will most likely be determined by the nature of her relationship with yourself. So far you haven’t made a very favorable impression.”
