by Amelia Smith
#
Thomas found an inn. The sturdy-looking man behind the desk was sharp enough to see through Thomas's eastern attire, and escorted him directly to one of the better rooms. It was adequately clean, looked out over the bay, and had a sturdy lock on the door.
“Yes, thank you,” Thomas said. “I believe this will do.”
The man named a price.
“That is rather more than I thought...” Thomas began.
“I can show you another room if you like,” the man offered.
“No, never mind. This will do.”
“Dinner was served at three. We keep ship times here,” the man said apologetically, “but you can find something along the harbor, I'm sure.”
“I'm sure,” Thomas said, dropping his bag onto a chair.
“Let me know if I can be of any further assistance,” the man said.
“Just one thing,” said Thomas. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to the naval offices?”
“But surely you know where they are already? You can hardly have missed them. They’re in the three buildings next door,” he gestured to the left of the building.
“Thank you,” Thomas said. He paused on his way out to ask one more question. “Do you know of any ships sailing for London in the next day or two?” he asked.
The man behind the desk laughed. “Not so soon as that. Have you seen the state of the fleet? There’s hardly a fully masted warship among them. And you’ll have to talk to the officers next door if you want to get on board a navy boat. The local merchant ships won’t take you farther than Cadiz.”
“I suppose I’ll go next door then,” Thomas said. He hadn't spoken to a bureaucrat since he'd left India. He had a dread of them. It would have been so much simpler if he could have walked up to Lord Nelson, chatted a bit about his grandfather, and been sent off in style. He decided to try his luck at the offices before he fell into bed.
Outdoors, balmy evening air drifted in off the sea. Men shouted to each other, singing and drinking as they walked home along the strand. Thomas felt uneasy in his skin. Perhaps he should go back to the inn and change into more English garb. Bureaucrats were sensitive to that kind of thing.
He was just about to return to his lodgings when he spotted a ginger-haired clerk scurrying up to an office building with a key in his hand.
“Excuse me, Sir,” Thomas said, stopping him. “Is this where I would make an inquiry about passage on a ship?”
The clerk looked him over, suspicious. “Are y-you an Englishman?” he asked.
“I am,” he said, “Thomas Pently, of the Windcastle Pentlys.”
“I see. The n-Windcastle Pentlys, is it?”
Thomas could see the clerk calculating his standing, figuring it in to what he should do next.
“You should speak to my superior officer, Captain Grey,” the clerk said briskly. “He will be here first thing in the morning, and I’ve just been making inquiries for him on the subject. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you.”
“Thank you,” Thomas said, “but might I ask what ships might have a berth available?”
“I… t-think you should address yours-self to Captain g-Grey, Sir,” the clerk said, managing to sound officious even with his stutter. He turned his back to Thomas and entered the offices, locking the door firmly behind him.
#
Thomas woke at dawn to bathe. He trimmed his beard himself, peering in the mirror, and put on his best suit. He had carried it all the way to Trivandrum and back, and had had it altered to fit once, a few years ago, but hadn't worn it since his first month in India. His servants had managed to keep it free of insects all these years, and though it wasn't in the latest fashion, it was still impeccably English – even if Thomas himself wasn't.
The shoulders were too tight, though they'd been let out as far as the fabric would go. A bit of thread trailed from the left leg cuff. He cut it off and sucked in his gut. He was by no means stout, but he wasn’t the slender youth of sixteen he’d been when he set out. Still, the wool was good, and he could put on his best aristocratic mien for this Captain Grey. He did remember how, didn’t he?
The letter summoning him home had informed him of his brother Richard's untimely and much-lamented death. Thomas was now his father's heir. A few years before, he might have torn up those summons and left it all to his younger brother, to let them think he was dead, but matters in India had grown complicated.
Thomas checked his pocket one more time for the letter to Admiral Nelson. A minute later, he stood at the door of a busy office. Files filled the tables and shelves and piled in corners of the floor, but a sense of order dominated despite the clutter. A middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard stood behind the largest desk, reviewing a list. He looked up at Thomas's entry, frowning.
“Mr. Pently, I presume,” he said.
Thomas bowed. “You must be Captain Grey. Your clerk told me that you had information about which ships might be bound for London.”
Captain Grey looked back to his list. “You can see the condition of our fleet for yourself,” he said. “Anything fit to sail through the straits is full.”
Thomas crossed the room to stand before him. Although he stood a good inch taller than Captain Grey, he could feel the bureaucrat's indifference to his presence. Hostility, even.
“I have a letter here, of introduction,” Thomas said. “It was meant to be given to Lord Nelson, to speed my passage…”
“Let me see it.” Captain Grey reached out for the letter and broke the seal with a swift flick of his thumb. Thomas’s hand had hardly returned to his side before the captain looked up from the letter.
“This letter, Sir, is hardly a glowing recommendation. You were dismissed from the company for dueling?”
“Many men duel, and few with better cause than I had,” Thomas said. The man was needling him. He had no idea why, but he refused to be drawn in.
Captain Grey threw the letter down on the table. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“My uncle…” Thomas began. His uncle was a tyrant. He did not want to invoke such a spectre. “I beg your pardon, Captain. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” He picked up the letter from the table and bowed to Captain Grey, then left. He would have to walk the shores and address himself to each ship’s captain individually, but first, he was going to read that letter and see what slander it contained.
Thomas stopped on the steps outside of the office and read the letter. He had to read it twice to see how Captain Grey might have read between the lines to deduce that he'd dueled. The letter was worded politely, with all the correct salutations. It detailed his social standing and the urgency of his safe return to England to preserve the Windcastle line. There was no overt mention of dueling in India, only disagreements. His estrangement from his family was only implied by the fact that he'd been so long away. He crumpled the letter and put it in his pocket. He resolved to carry on as Mr. Smithson again, the name he'd gone by in the Company, until the Pently family tightened their noose around him in person. They certainly hadn't given him any advantage with Captain Grey.
#
The morning of their departure dawned still and foggy. The household woke before first light to breakfast together one last time. Captain Grey sat at the head of the table, looking from one of his children to the other.
“Hyacinth,” he said. “I believe that Celia will guide you well. You should marry, or at least have the chance to.”
“Father?” she said.
He nodded for her to continue.
“Would you mind if I didn’t marry?” Hyacinth said. “You see, I was thinking that with Grandmother Miller's inheritance, I might start a school. For girls.”
Captain Grey took a deep breath. “If that is what you wish to do, of course you may,” he said, “but marriage... I thought you would want to be married. Young ladies generally do, and I thought you were only hoping for a more suitable match than the few gentlemen you've met here. I wish you could
be as happy as I was with your mother and… I believe she was happy with me, too.”
George swung his legs under the table and rolled his eyes. Hyacinth would have kicked him if she could. He usually yawned loudly when anyone said anything about love. Part of it might have been his illegitimate birth, but mostly it was because he was a boy, and boys his age never thought much of romance.
Their father was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice.
“I won’t marry for the sake of convention,” Hyacinth said. “If I do, it will be for love.”
“There’s my girl,” he said absently. “I wish your mother could see you now.” He took a deep breath, then turned to his younger child.
“Now, George,” he said in a firm, brisk voice. “Things won’t be so easy for you.”
“Then why are you sending me?” George said. He pushed his eggs around the plate and had torn his bread into crumbs. He made hills and craters with his food as their father spoke.
“Because, with a good education you’ll be able to do better than be a simple sailor.”
“But I want to be a navy man!” George said. “I want to fight!”
“George. Listen to me. Even those of us who wield pens and ledgers do our part.”
“Yes, Sir,” George mumbled.
#
A quarter of an hour later, Hyacinth stepped onto the boat which would row them out to the Whistler. Hyacinth's maid, Maria, sat in the prow beside George. George looked more like Maria's younger brother than Hyacinth's – George took after his mother's half-Moorish family. Maria had joined their household as a maid of all work when Hyacinth first came to Gibraltar. She was only a year older than Hyacinth and had been her closest confidante, though that wasn't saying much. Maria would help to chaperone George on the journey and then stay on as Hyacinth's lady's maid, unless she chose to return to Spain. Hyacinth and Captain Grey sat at the stern of the boat, looking out at the fleet before them.
The sailors bent to their oars, weaving in and out among the warships. The flotilla departing for England included the Victory, which carried the body of Admiral Nelson. Hyacinth crossed herself as they passed under its shadow.
“Captain Grey!” A man on the decks shouted. It was the Victory’s purser. “We’re short a barrel of tar!”
Captain Grey acknowledged him. “I’ll see to it shortly,” he called back.
When they’d rowed on a few strokes past the Victory’s bowsprit, Captain Grey turned to Hyacinth.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay with you until you set sail, as I’d hoped. I’ll have to make the rounds of the other ships, as well.”
“That’s all right,” Hyacinth said. She felt the slight bob of the boat underneath them and hoped that the knot in her stomach was only nerves, not seasickness. She had never been seasick as a girl, and there was no reason to think she would start now. Up ahead, she could see the Whistler, so much smaller than the gunships around it.
“Celia will no doubt help you select a fashionable wardrobe when you reach London,” Captain Grey said. “She’s always been a paragon of style, if nothing else.” He sighed.
Hyacinth had gathered that relations between her father and his sister had been strained since her father had married, but they were still family, so the letters came and went while the old disagreement – whatever it was – simmered under the surface.
“I’ve made arrangements for George to have an allowance,” her father continued. “I’ll leave you with some of it, here,” he said, passing Hyacinth a heavy purse. “You can also draw on my account at Seaman’s Trust.” He handed her a worn deposit book. “There’s enough there to cover his school fees, with a little left over. I’ve left a hundred pounds there for you, in case you need it, but Celia will most likely see to all your needs.”
“If I remember, she was very generous,” Hyacinth said as she fit the coin-filled purse into her reticule. “Besides,” she added, “there'll be the accounts I have from Grandmother Miller.”
Captain Grey sighed. “Celia’s a stickler for other people’s propriety and will interpret that whatever way she pleases. Take care of George.”
“Of course I will,” Hyacinth promised. “I hope we won't give you too much to worry about.”
Her father chuckled. “I believe it won't be long until you find a husband to handle your affairs. In the meantime, you have a sensible head on your shoulders.”
The boat was sliding abreast of the Whistler already. She would have liked to tell her father again that she was not so intent on marriage, to remind him of her plans for a school. There were probably hundreds of girls forced onto the streets as her grandmother must have been. If she could help a few of them, maybe it would help redeem her grandmother's memory. Besides, her inheritance promised independence, and she would not throw it away. Marriage, even courtship, would surely be an impediment. Beginning a school seemed like a better adventure than courting young gentlemen under Aunt Celia's guidance.
The boat pulled up to a ladder and their baggage was handed up. They didn't have much, just a small chest of books and a slightly larger trunk of clothes apiece. As they waited to climb aboard, another boat approached, oars dipping in and out of the water in a steady rhythm. A tall, light-haired passenger sat in its stern and tipped his hat to Hyacinth.
“That…” Captain Grey frowned. “Have you met that man, Hyacinth?”
“No,” she said. “I might have seen him in the town this past week, though.”
Her father’s frown deepened. “That man's family has left a string of neglected bastards across the west of England, and I doubt he’s an exception. To be a black sheep in that lot…”
Hyacinth's father rarely shared his opinions so forcefully. She wondered what the man had done to earn his ire.
The man had turned his head away, avoiding Captain Grey's gaze.
“Did you grant him passage on this ship, then?” Hyacinth asked under her breath.
“I did not,” Captain Grey said. “I will speak to Captain Hotham, but...” Up on deck, the captain had come to the rail. He shouted a greeting to the approaching boats. At his orders, a second ladder coiled down, so that both boats could discharge their passengers at once.
“I may be too late.” Captiain Grey frowned. “I'll see if other arrangements can be made, but steer clear of that man, if he is to be your fellow passenger.”
“Certainly,” Hyacinth said, but even as she promised, she had a hard time keeping her eyes off the man. He scaled the ladder as if he’d lived his whole life on the sea. She turned away and picked up her reticule, checking it once more for the solicitor’s letter, the bank notes, and her other papers. She stole another glance at her fellow passenger as he disappeared onto the deck above.
“Steer clear of that man, I say,” her father repeated.
#
Chapter Two: The Whistler
Hyacinth bunched her skirts and climbed up the ladder to the deck. It had been years since she'd set foot on a ship of any size, years since she'd left Gibraltar. This ship, the Whistler, felt smaller and busier than the last one she'd been on, years ago, drifting back from England the summer after her mother had died, before George was born.
“Excuse me a moment, Hyacinth,” her father said, setting a hand on her shoulder. “I'll go find the captain.” Captain Grey's eyes narrowed as he spotted the captain greeting the windswept passenger from the other boat. He muttered something under his breath and strode away.
George sprang onto the deck and dashed to the fo’c’sle before Hyacinth could catch him. Maria was still in the boat, clinging to the ladder with her hands but refusing to put her feet on its rungs.
“What's the trouble?” Hyacinth asked her.
Maria bit her lip and shot a glare at one of the sailors, who gave her a teasing prod.
“Leave her alone!” Hyacinth said.
Maria still looked uneasy.
“You have to get up on the ship one way or another, and this is easier than hanging
onto a basket while they hoist you up.”
“Possibly,” Maria said.
“We'll turn our backs if you like,” the sailor offered.
Hyacinth nodded. “That would help, yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
Without the sailor's eyes on her, Maria put a tentative toe up.
“You can do it,” Hyacinth said. “It's no worse than going up to the attic.”
“The attic doesn't rock, and there's the floor to catch me, not the sea,” Maria complained, but she set her foot onto the next rung and reached Hyacinth a moment later.
“You'll get used to it,” Hyacinth said, trying to cheer her. “Besides, we should reach England in a fortnight. It's not for long, and then we'll live in a fine house.”
Maria smoothed her skirts and nodded stoically.
“I see all the ladies are aboard, then?” Captain Grey said as he returned. “May I present Captain Hotham.”
“Good morning, Miss Grey.” The captain was middle-aged, his hair so bleached and grizzled that it was impossible to determine its original color, though it might have been auburn. He shared Captain Grey's calm, upright demeanor and air of command, but they stood a long arm's length apart, measuring each other. Hyacinth's father kept the other passenger in his sights.
Captain Hotham spoke to the first mate. “Mr. Bromley, would you please show Mr. Smithson to his quarters?”
Captain Grey narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Smithson, is it?” he said. “Hmm. He said he was...”
“Said he was what?” Hyacinth asked.
Her father shook his head. “Never mind, but I won't have you compromised before Celia can toss you out into the social whirl.”
“Yes, Father,” Hyacinth said, “I should hope I have more sense than that!”
Captain Hotham returned his attention to them.
